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JoRMf FoKD was baptized at lUington in Devonshire on April 17, 
1 586. He came of a respectable £muly which had long lived in this 
neighborhood. Hb father, Thomas Ford, it appears from Rymer*s 
Faedera (cited by Gifibrd) was in the commission of the peace. His 
mfother was the sister of Lord-chief-justice Popham. <' They in this 
coohty,** says Fuller {fForthies^ vol. i, p. 413, 1840), ''seem 
innated with a genius to study law . . . Devonshire makes a feast 
of such who l^ the practice thereof have raised great estates.** 
Ford*s rehtionship to Popham, a man of weight and influence in 
the reigns of both Elizabeth and James I, may be presumed to 
have affected his choice of a career. For though it is probable that 
he matriculated at Exeter College, Oxford, in March of 1601,^ we 
find him entered in November, 1602, at the Middle Temple, of 
which Popham was a member and for some time treasurer. Ford*s 
London fiife, even after he became a well-recognized dramatist, re- 
mained closely associated with the Inns-of-Court. In Gray*8 Inn he 
had a cousin John Ford, to whom he was deeply attached, and who 
doubtless opened the way to a pleasant fellowship with the mem- 
ben of his own house. In 1629 Ford dedicated his Lover* s Mel- 
ancholy ''To my worthily respected Mends, Nathaniel Finch, John 
Ford Esquires ; Master Henry Blunt, Master Robert Ellice, and aU 
the rest of the noble society of Gray*s Inn.** In 1633 he dedicated 
Lovers Sacrifice " To my truest friend, my worthiest kinsman, John 
Ford, of Gray*s Inn, Esq. ** Commendatory verses for this play were 
written by James Shirley, who in 1625 had taken up his residence 
at Gray*s Inn. 

In these days there was a powerful literary leaven in the Inns-of- 
Court. It is necessary only to mention the names of Bacon, Mid- 
dleton, Beaumont, Sir John Davies, John Marston in order to sug- 
gest some of the forces that tended to divert young men from the 

' A John Ford was entered under that date: see Dictionary of 
National Biography ^ article on Ford the dramatist. 

1^ V 

vi IBtograpIn! 

teverity of their legal stadiet — the &ther of Manton, who lamented 
his ton*s seduction by the stage, had Tainly bequeathed to his heir 
his law books in the Middle Temple. The young barrister who 
passed from the study of jurisprudence to the study and profession of 
letters was supported by many distinguished precedents. Yet for 
nearly a score of years alter his admission to the Temple, Ford seems 
merely to have dallied with literary composition. So late as 1 629 in 
the prologue to the Lover* s MeJancAo/y he assumes an air of patrician 
superiority to those who nuke '*the noble use of poetry a trade.** 
Till after 1620 his work may well have been, as he n so fond of 
asserting that it was, the fruit of his leisure. His first literary ventiur, 
Fame't Memorial^ 1606, is a long elegiac poem on the death of the 
Earl of Devonshire — a barely tolerable performance inspired by 
youthful enthuvasm and a deare to make himself known as a poet in 
polite society. Later in 1 606 the visit of the King of Denmark in Eng- 
land gave occanon for his Honour Triumphant or the Peers' Challenge ^ 
a romantic treadse in prose and verse, to which vras added The ilfmr- 
archs* Meeting, containing three poetical pieces in honor of the 
Danish sovereign. This pamphlet, like Fame*s Memorial j was de- 
signed to commend its author to the attenoon of aristocratic circles. 
His next production is a lost and unpublished comedy, An III Be^ 
ginning has a Good End, acted at the Cockpit in 161 3. Sir Thomas 
Overhury^s Ghost, entered in the Stationers* Roister on the 25th 
of November, 1 61 5, is also merely a name. The last performance 
of this period is A Line of Life, a moral treadse in prose, published 
in 1620. The moral edification of the work is insignificant; but the 
style shows some interesting traces of Bacon*s influence, and there 
are some suggestive sketches of contemporaries. 

After this long period of occasional, miscellaneous, and desultory 
writing, Ford entered upon a short period of industrious collaboration 
vrith Dekker, Rowley, Webster and perhaps others. It is a rather 
striking coincidence that in the year 1 61 3, when Ford's first comedy 
(the lost An III Beginning has a Good End) was acted, Dekker was 
thrown into prison and was silent for seven years, and that Ford ap- 
parentiy made no further dramatic attempt till Dekker joined with 
him and Rowley in the composition of The fVitch of Edmonton. 
This tragi-comedy was not published till 1658 ; but the execution 
of the witch referred to in the title took place in 1621; and it is 

iDtosrapQ? vii 

generally agreed that the play was written to take immediate advan- 
tage of the interest aroused by the trial. In March, 1 623-24, a moral 
masque, The Suns Darlings was licensed for production at the Cock- 
pitj in 1636 it was printed with the names of Ford and Dekkcr on' 
the title-page. In 1 624 two other plays, The Fairy Knight and The 
Bristoive Merchant^ were, according to Sir Henry Herbert's Diary ^ 
produced by the joint authorship of Ford and Dekker ; but these 
are lost. In September of the same year a tsagedy by Ford and Web- 
ster, j1 Late Murther of the Son upon the Mot her y was licensed for 
the stage, but was not published, and is now lost. Further evidence 
of friendly relations between Ford and Webster is to be found in the 
commendatory yerses by the former printed in the Duchess of Malfiy 

The production of The Lover* s Melancholy^ November 24, 
1628 (published 1629), marks the beg^ning of Ford's independent 
and significant dramatic period. In the dedicatory epistle he declares 
that thb is the first dramatic piece of his *< that ever courted reader," 
and he intimates that very likely he will not rush into print again. 
After a decent interval, however, he put forth in 1633 three trage- 
dies, '7Vi Fity She's a Whore ^ The Broken Heart, and Lwe*sSaC' 
rtfice. In 1634 he published his one historical play. The Chronicle 
History of Per kin War heck. The Fancies Chaste and Noble appeared in 
1638, and in' the- following year The Lady's Trial , the last drama to 
be published during the author's life-time. A tragedy. Beauty in a 
Trance y was entered in the Stationers' Register, September 9, 1653, 
and two comedies, beside An III Beginning has a Good End, were 
entered in June, 1660, namely The London Merchant znd T,he Royal 
Combat; all these were sacrificed by Warburton's cook. It remains 
only to add The ^een or the Excellency of her Sex, a tragi-comedy 
published in 1653 by Alexander Goughe, and attributed by Professor 
Bang in his reprint of 1906 to John Ford. 

Of lord's later days we know nothing; after 1639 he vanishes. 
Oifford says there was ''an indistinct tradition among his neighbours 
that he married and had children." From various dedicatory epistles 
and com^imentary verses we conclude that he lived on excellent 
terms with several gentlemen of the legal profession and several well* 
known playwrights — among the latter, Webster, Dekker, Shirley, 
Massinger, and Brome. He contributed verses prefixed to Barnabe 

viii IBIOgnpIS 

BtiTiM*! Four Booh of Offcosy 1 606; to tevenl < 
Overbury*! fVlfo \ and a highly laudatory poem on Ben Jonion to 1 
Jonionut Virinuty 1 6 38. Our knowledge of his character it m«n1y 
uiferential, though hit penittent empharit upon hit independence 
of the literary profession reveals clearty enough one <^ hit pcnntt of 
pride. A line in Heywood*s Hierarchy of the BUued Angeis^ 1635, 

And hee*t now but Jocke Foord, that once wat John 

perhaps indicatei a certain loss of personal dignity which Ford tof- 
fered from hb association with members of the dramatic profettian. A 
couplet in The Ttme Poett (Choyce Drollery, 1656) throwt t 
light upon his temperament : 

Deep in a dump yohn Ford alone wat got 

With folded armcs and melancholly hat. | 

From first to last Ford wrote to please selected judgmenti, And, 
though several of his plays seem to have met with tolend>le apprord, 
there is little evidence that he ever enjoyed wide reputation. Adde 
from the tributes of fellow dramatists, the most interesting contem- 
porary mention that he received is the epigram of Richard CrathaW: 

Thou cheat* St us, Ford; mak*st one seem two by art: 
What is Lovers Sacrifice but The Broken Heart ? 

Under the date March 3, 1668-69, Pepys writes m his Diary: 
« To the Duke of York's playhouse, and there saw an old play, me 
first time acted these forty years, called * The Lady*8 TryaU,*-acted 
only by the young people of the house ; but the house very fbIL** 
In 1 7 14 Per kin H^arbeck was reprinted to take advantage '<^ the 
excitement caused by the Jacobite insurrection in Scotland, and in 
174$ it was acted on similar occasion. In 1748 Macklin revived 
the Lover* I Melancholy in Drury-Lane for the benefit of hit wifo. 
* Tit Pity She*s a PFhore was included in Dodsley's Select Collection 
of Old Plays, 1744. '^^^ beginning of Ford's modem and subttan- 
tial recognition, however, is marked by Lamb's panegyric on Thi 
Broken Heart in his Specimens from the Dramatic Poets, 1808. 


WHBif John Ford was a young man of twenty read- 
ing law at the inns-of-court he committed two trifling 
literary hidiscretions called Fame's Memorial znd Honour 
Triumphant. These little tracts, both published in 1 606, 
are of slight intrinsic interest, and they have passed hitherto 
with insignificant comment. At first sight, indeed, there 
seems to be no important connection between them and 
their author's dramatic work which began to appear in 
print more than a score of years later. As a matter of 
feet, however, they yield to closer scrutiny extremely 
•nggestive hmts on the source of Ford's ideas and cul- 
ture, on the native bias of his character, and on his pe- 
culiar conception g( tragedy. 

The immediate occasion of the first of these publica- 
tions was the death, April 3,1 606, of the accomplished 
and valiant Lord Montjoy, Earl of Devonshire. Suc- 
cessor in Ireland to the ill-fated Essex, he had in the 
last years of Elizabeth's reign gained military and ad- 
ministrative glory. On December 26, 1605, he married 
Lady Rich, then divorced from her husband, and, as 
Giffbrd says, ** by this one step, which, according to 
our notions and probably to his own, was calculated to 
repair in some measure the injury which the lady's 
character had sustained, ruined both her and himself. 
• . . While the Earl maintained an adulterous com- 
merce with the lady all went smoothly; but the instant 

X 3|ncro0tt(tton 

he mtrried her, he lost the protection of the court jl 
the estimation of the public. ' The King/ says Sa 
derson> ^ was so much displeased thereat as it broke tl 
Earl's heart; for his Majesty told him that he had pui 
chased a fair woman with a black soul.' " 

The situation evidently interested Ford greatly. Ai 
we shall have occasion to note elsewhere, he was al- 
ways on the side of lovers. Love seemed to him first 
and last the supreme reality of life. In 1606 he was 
himself, according to Fame^s Memorial, hopelessly in 
love, and so perhaps predisposed to sympathy. There 
was, moreover, much in the Devonshire case to eiilist 
his interest. The Lady Rich had never loved Lord 
Rich, and had been married to him against her will. 
Between her and Devonshire, on the other hand, was 
the bond of a long and faithful affection. Rich was 
mean, brutal, and jealous. Devonshire was one of the 
first gentlemen of the time. Lady Rich under the name 
of " Stella " had been the muse of courtly poets from 
the days of Sidney. Ford enters the field with Fame^s 
Memorial not merely to celebrate the character of the 
dead nobleman, but also to plead the rights of love 
against public opinion. His appeal is to the select few : 
non omnibus studeo, non malevolis. He refers to the 
Earl's alliance thus: " Link'd in the graceful bonds of 
dearest life, | Unjustly term'd disgraceful, he enjoy 'd | 
Content's abundance." He characterizes the lady whom 
James had called a "fair woman with a black soul" 
as "that glorious star | Which beautified the value of 
our land. The lights of whose perfections brighter are 
I Than all the lamps which in the lustre stand | Of 

Sintroouction xi 

Heaven's forehead." He commends her for braving 
popular censure: **A beauty fairly-wise, wisely-dis- 
creet I In winking mildly at the tongue of rumour.'* 
Finally he reveals the intensely romantic ground on 
which he stands by a veiled reference to this affair in 
Honour Triumphant : ''ThcjLErincipallydeserve 

WJIO Can^g riH'"'^^^ ^hf^ir privglt? ^ffgrri^ny/anrTWf*] the 

scope of desert to the executing their ladies command, 
and adorn their names by martial feats of arms: . . . 
Yea, what better example than of late in our own ter- 
ritory? that noble, untimely-cropt spirit of honour, our 
English Hector [Devonshire], who cared not to un- 
dergo any gust of spleen and censure for his never- 
sufficiently admired Opia, a perfect Penelope [Penelope 
was the lady's given name] to her ancient knight 

The circumstances which led to the composition of 
Honour Triumphant are worthy of a brief notice. In 
the summer of 1 606 the King of Denmark paid a visit 
to the English court. In honour of the occasion there 
were endless banquets, parades, pageants, plays, and 
royal joustings. Among the martial pastimes one inter- 
esting revival from bygone days of chivalry demands 
our attention, namely, a ** Challenge of four Knights 
Errant of the Fortunate Islands, (Earls of Lenox, 
Arundel, Pembroke, and Montgomery,) to maintain 
four propositions relating to love and ladies, addressed 
to all honourable ' Men at Arms, Knights Adventurers 
of Hereditary Note, that for most maintenable actions 
wield the sword or lance, in the quest of glory.' " This 
entry may be found in the Calendar of State Papers 

xii iliitroottctioii 

Domestic 9 vol. zzii, June i, page 319. To the notice 
is added in brackets, "By Wm. Drummond of Haw- 
thornden." It is not clear what is meant by this ascrip- 
tion. In 1606 Drummond was making his first visit to 
London, and since his father was in attendance upon 
the King, would naturally have been in touch with the 
affiiirs of the court. In a letter dated at Greenwich, 
June I, 1606 (see Drummond's IVorh^ Edinburgh, 
171 1, pp. 231-32), Drummond gives the full text 
of the challenge, and names the four defenders. His 
wording of the four propositions, slightly different from 
Ford's, is as follows: 

''I. That in service of ladies no knight hath 6'ee 

** 2. That it is beauty maintaineth the world in valor. 

••3. That no fair lady was ever false. 

«« 4. That none can be perfectly wise but lovers." 
Drummond adds : *' The king of Denmark is expected 
here daily, for whose entertainment, this challenge ap* 
peareth to be given forth "; this does not seem to indi- 
cate Drummond's authorship. In a letter of June 28 
{^IVorks as above, p. 233), Drummond records a hu- 
morous answer to the challenge with four counter 
propositions; but he remarks that ''the answerers have 
not appeared." 

The affair made the king laugh, says the Scotch poet, 
but the young Templar Ford was struck by the happy 
thought that the pen b mighder than the sword. Ac- 
cordingly he brings forth his pamphlet Honour Trium- 
fhant : or the Peeres* Challenge with this motto on the 
title-page: Tarn Mer curio ^ quam Marti — ** In honor 

Jliicroimction xiii 

of all faire ladies, and in defence of these fowrc positions 
following: i . Knights in ladies service have no free-" 
will. 2. Beauty is the mainteiner of valour. 3. Faire 
lady was never felse. 4. Perfect lovers are onely wise. 
Mainteined by Arguments." The four parts of the dis- 
course are addressed to the Lords Lennox, Arundel, 
Pembroke, and Montgomery in the order named. The 
dedicatory episde is addressed to the Countess of Pem- 
broke and the Countess of Montgomery. There is also 
a saucy address "to every sundry-opinioned reader" 
which contains the assurance that Ford is wridng to 
please the faar and noble, and is utterly indifferent to 
the judgment of all others. 

But what chiefly concerns us is the spirit and temper 
of the document itself. We should not expect much 
originality of thought in a youth of twenty, nor do we 
find it here. Honour 'Triumphant rtvesls a mind im- 
mersed in the chivalric romances and poetry of the 
Elizabethan reign,' and deeply impregnated with the 
Platonic ideas of love and beauty best represented in 
the hynms of Spenser but through the medium of Italian 
literature widely disseminated in English. The upshot 
of the argument is to idendfy the good with the beaud- 
fiil and the service of a fair lady with the pursuit of 
virtue. **The chiefest creation of man," says Ford, 
•♦ was — next his own soul — to do homage to the ex- 
cellent frame of beauty — a woman ! " «* To be cap- 
tived to beauty is to be free 'to virtue." To be exchided 
from the favour of beauty is a ** hell insufferable." All 
men of valour aim at honour ; but, he contends, ** the 
^ The influence of Lyly*t Eupkues is obyioui. 


xiv BIncroouction 

mark which honour directs his level to is to pan 
the delightful sweets of sweetest beauty." Beaut 
is a good in itself. ** For men to be honoured o 
18 the scope of all felicity." This position is sup 
by Aristotle who says : ** the temperature of th- 
follows the temperature of the body." Hence it 
that if a lady is beautiful she must be good : ** 
outward shape is more singular, so the inward 
must be more exquisite." To love a beautiful \ 
is the highest wisdom. Indeed, lovers are often si 
to theologians in their knowledge of the divir 
theologians are occasionally distracted by human \ 
but ** lovers have evermore the idea of beauty i 
imaginations, and therefore hourly do adore their ^ 
architecture." In conclusion : ** Would any be 
courageous, singular, or provident ? let him be a 
In that life consisteth all happiness, all courage, all 

/The ardor and earnestness of Ford's style 
that the leading propositions of this pamphlet v 
him not merely a set of pretty paradoxes, bi;^ arc 
TVi^ ^ftrffhip ftf V^^^'^yr the fatality of lov e, the 
cation of passion — these were, the fruits of an 
cratic and highly captivating mode of |ree thoug} ;t 
pendent alike of public opinion ^ comm on morals 
and religion, and at times even clashing shari 
jhcm_. For it is clear that most startlmgly unconvc 
conclusions may be logically derived from the fun< 
tal principles of the religion of beautyJTo takei 
instance, Spenser says in his ** Hy^ ne in Hnr 
Beautie " that love is a celestial harmony ol 

SIntroOuction xv 

** composed of starres concent," of hearts that knew 
each other before they descended from their ** heavenly 
bowres. ' ' 

Then wrong it were that any other twaine 
Should in love* 8 gentle band combyned bee 
But those whom heaven did at first ordaine, 
And made out of one mould the more t* agree. 

Suppose, for the sake of illustration, a common Eliz- 
abethan marriage, such as that of Lord and Lady Rich, 
in w hich relatives dis p9gg gf fh^ ^"Hff; f^^ r^o«/^T^a of 
f cytune aij ^ ft^tpil y - Subsequently the man destined by 
heaven for Lady Rich appears. According to the relig- 
ion of beauty, it ^ is right that th ey should ^ bg.jmite4j^ 
but the corrupted currents of lawTmorality, and church 
religion do not allow it. 

Spenser's wish to withdraw this poem from circulation 
because of its dangerous miplications — finding that young 
readers "do rather sucke out poyson to their strong 
passion, then hony to their honest delight"' — is a i 
characteristic example of English ethical sense curbing | 
the aesthetic impulse in the interest of conduct. In 
England this religion of beauty was then, as it has always 
been, an exotic ; * and graver heads in Ford's own time 
repudiated it in no mild terms, betraying their conviction 
that the glorification of amorous passion was a curse out 
of Italy, a weakness to be condoned in youth, a vice to 

* See his prefatory note to the edition of 1596. 

^ Cf. Camilla to IPhilautus : 'Mn Italy to lyvein love is thought 
no fault, for that there they are all given to lust, which maketh thee 
to conjecture that we in England recken love as ye chiefest vertue, 
which we abhorre as ye greatest vice." EupAueSf p. 373, London, 

xvi 3|ncro9ttceion 

be condemned in maturity. ««The stage," says Lord 
Bacon, **is more beholden to love than the life of man. 
For as to the stage love is ever a matter of comedies 
and now and then of tragedies, but in life it doth much 
mischief, sometimes like a siren, sometimes like a fiuy. 
. . . Great spirits and great business do keep out this 
weak passion." ' Equally striking is the judgment on 
love by that little known but very interesting essayist 
Sir William Cornwallis: *'It is a pretty soft thing this 
same Love . . . the badge of eighteene, and upward, 
not to be disallowed ; better spend thy time so then 
at Dice. I am content to call this Love, though I holde 
Love too worthy a Cement to joyne earth to earth. * ' So 
hiT is Cornwallis from partaking in the pseudo-Pla- 
tonic ideas of Ford that he is unwilling to bestow the 
name of love at all on the ** affection" existing between 
the sexes, ** for it gives opportunity to lust, which the 
pureness of Love will not endure." * As further evidence 
of a contemporary distrust of human nature and disgust 
at all irregular relations, take these sentences from an 
excellent *' Discourse of Laws" 3 which appeared in 
1620: "Laws are so absolutely necessary ... to 
make such a distinction between lawful and exorbitant 
desires, as unlawfull affections may not be colored with 
good appearances. . . . Whereas men be naturallj 
affected and possessed with a violent heat of desires and 
passions and fancies, laws restrain and draw them from 
those actions and thoughts that would precipitate to all 

* See his essay " Of Love.** 

' Essay es. By Sir William Comewallys, London, 1606 : Essay 5. 

' An essay in Hora Subseci'vay Londcm, 1620. 

3|ntro6ttrtion xvii 

manner of hazards and ill, which natural inclination is 
prone enough to." Finally, Robert Burton after rang- 
ing widely through the vast literature of the subject de- 
fines romantic love as a disease. ''The comeliness and 
beauty which proceeds from woman," he says, '*caus- 
eth Heroicaif or Love-melancholy, is more eminent 
above the rest, and properly called Love. The part af- 
fected in men is the liver, and therefore called Heroicaly 
because commonly Gallants, Noblemen, and the most 
generous spirits are possessed with it." ' Yet this hero- 
ical love, he declares, ''deserves much rather to be 
called burning lust than by such an honourable title." * 
It is the special passion of an idle nobility : "We may 
conclude, that if they be young, fortunate, rich, high- 
fed, and idle withal, it is almost impossible that they 
should live honest, not rage and precipitate themselves 
into those inconveniences of burning lust. ' ' 3 

Now it is a significant fact that one of the few bits 
of contemporary evidence bearing on Ford's character 
tends to show that he had the reputation of a romantic 
amorist. In Cboyce Drollery (1656) there appear two 
lines with distinct implications: 

Deep in a dump yokn Ford alone was got 
With folded armes and melanchoUy hat/ 

Ellis seems to think that this means that he was of "shy 
and reserved temperament. " Ward glosses thus: " He 

* The Anatomy of Melancholy ^ vol. iii, p. 43, London, 1904. 
« Ibid.y p. 57. 

* Ibid. J p. 69. 

* Choyce Drollery. . . . Now first reprinted from the edition of 
1656. . . . £d. byj. Woodfall Ebsworth, Boston, 1876: the refer- 
ence is in a poem On the Timt'PoetSy pp. 5-7. 



xviii JlntMimttion 

is ridiculed for a tendency to lelf-seclutton anc 
choly." But the best commentaxy upon the c 
furnished by one of the curious sections of th< 
piece of Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, It n 
a tally elegantly attired young gentleman stand 
folded hands and wide hat pulled far down 
eyes. Beside him are books and quill pen, al 
music and a lute, and he is labeled ** Inamorat 
illustrates the section of the work called ** Love 
choly." The couplet, then, does not furnish 
haps "that vivid touch of portraiture" wh 
sees in it, but it refers Ford by a conventional i 
well recognized type. This interpretadon is b 
by a passage in Comwallis; love, he says, brii 
** songs full of passion, enough to procure cross< 
and the Hat pulled down." * I dwell upon tl 
because it goes to prove, with the other evider 
Ford p ortray ed the _yariotts__pass ions of lov< 
dramas fr nq 7 a" m^ idevjcwj and not with the 
ment of the sovereign" dramarisj nor the objec 
a scholar or a physician, but with the broodii 
pathy of a lover. 

It IS egp^dally necessary to insist upon tl 
furthermore, because Ford, in spite of his fiinda: 
different point of view, shows a large obligation 
ton. Wit h the single exc eption of Perkin fFat 
chooses for the theme of his plays some aspec 
mantle or ' * heroic al " love, and he scrutiii 
mental and physical symptoms of the lovers wi 
thing of medical interest. Like Burton, he s 

' Essay 5. 

3|ntro0uction xix 

believe this heroical love the peculiar affection of men 
and women living in luxurious idleness; for he excludes 
his characters from participation in field sports, war, 
adventure, and shuts them up where love is the only 
social resource — to quote Burton's own words, "in 
great houses, princes' courts, where they are idle in 
summo graduy fare well, live at ease, and cannot tell 
otherwise how to spend their time." Hii characters, 
accordingly, being vacant of all other occupation, juc 
completely engrossed by a single passion of lov e, or of 
jealousy, or of revenge, or of grief, which becomes sole 
master of their fate, and ravishes them with extravagant 
joy, or secretly preys upon their spirits, or hurries them 
swifdy down to crime and death. 

In his first published play, y7>^ Ln^f r*s Melancboh 
(1629), Ford acknowledges by a marginal note his in- 
debtedness to B urton for a passage distinguishing certain 
mental diseases from melancholy. It has also been 
pointed out that the interlude of madmen is derived 
from the Anatomy, It should be made equally clear 
that the germinal idea of the whole play is due to Bur- 
ton. The Lover* 5 Melancholy is decidedly deficient in 
acdon, but such elements of plot as it possesses seem to 
have been suggested by Burton's procedure in the section 
of his work treating of love melancholy. Ford chooses 
for this scene a love-sick court, and in a medico-poetical 
fashion studies the causes, the symptoms and the cure 
of love. He even introduces as an active figure among 
the dramatis personae a physician who has evidently 
given his days and nights to the study of Burton. In 
this case the patients are all afflicted with love-sorrow 

XX SIntroOuction 

caused by a separation from the objects of their affec- 
tions. Since their affections flow in permissible channels 
the cure is simple; it is necessary only to re-unite the 
sundered lovers. 

Closely related to Tbe Lover^s Melancholy by virtue 
of their common relation to the Anatomy of Melancholy 
is the play called The Queen (i6^^) , recently edited 
by Professor Bang and most plausibly attributed by him 
to the authorship of Ford. Here again, with something 
more of plot than in The Lover's Melancholy^ we find 
the same curious use of the Burtonian psychotherapeu- 
tics. Alphonso, the hero, is suffering from an unac- 
countable but intense antagonism to the entire female 
sex. The queen is suffering equally from a no less in- 
tense and unaccountable passion for Alphonso. Muretto, 
a benevolent villain who understands the nature of this 
heroical melancholy, deliberately goes about, like a mod- 
em practidoner of the art of mental healing, to suggest 
to the mind of the hero thoughts favorable to the queen. 
By a strenuous course of psychological treatment he re- 
stores the woman-hater to a normal condidon. Hero 
and heroine are manipulated by the master of the show 
in certain typical and excidng crises of love, jealousy, 
and remorse to illustrate the treatment of mental aber- 
radon. The formula is apparent: Alphonso is the pa- 
tient; Muretto is the physician; the queen is the cure. 

The Fanci ^ i ^C] ^^ue and Noble (i6;;8) is doubtless 
from the dramatic, the aesthetic, or the ethical point of 
view one of the worst plays in the world. It admits the 
reader to a disgustingly indecent situation, extracts from 
it the full measure of repulsiveness, and then in the fifth 

3|ntro9uction xxi 

act blandly assures us it was all an innocent hoax. The 
thing is bad beyond condemnadon, but perhaps not 
beyond explanation. One may assume that it was a 
work of Ford's dotage. Or — and it is rather tempt- 
ing — one may assume that Ford had undertaken, like 
his master Burton, to display not only all the common 
aspects of love-melancholy, but also its sinister and 
execrable idiosyncrasies, of which senile lasciviousness 
is one. 

The LaJfs Trig/ (i6^g), the last of the plays with 
happy endings, may be considered a study of ground- 
less jealousy after marriage. The husband returning 
from a long journey becomes gravely suspicious of his 
entirely innocent wife. All the friends and acquaint- 
ances of the family rise vehemently in defense of the 
wife, and at length the jealous man's ill fancies are 
routed. The interest here lies in the delicate portrayal 
of the emotions of a finely fibred woman under stress 
of a terrible accusation, in the chivalrous feeling which 
her virtue excites in the breast of the least virtuous, and 
in the careful exposition of the various shades of feeling 
through which the husband passes before his confidence 
is restored. The play contains some of Ford's sweetest 
blank verse and some excellently subtle bits of charac- 
terization; but the substance of the story is altogether 
too slight to be stretched over a five-act drama. 

If Ford had written only TJbe Lover's Melancholy ^ 
The Slueen^ The Fancies Chaste and Noble, and The 
Lady*s Trial he would have established but small claims 
on the attention of posterity. Nor would Per kin War- 
beck have made him a reputation. Coming to the stage 

xxii 3|ntro9ttction 

after Shakespeare, Chapman, Jonson, Dekker, Hey- 
wood, Middleton, Webster, Beaumont, and Fletcher, 
he had nothing to contribute to dramatic technique but 
much to learn. On the basis of the five plays so hi 
considered one might almost be justified in rating him as 
an intermittently successful imitator. Tbe Lover^s Mel' 
ancboly is a pretty thing in the Arcadian mood, but im- 
measurably surpassed in its kind by predecessors. As for 
The Queen, Beaumont and Fletcher had written a half 
dozen tragi-comedies of its type as good or far better. 
No one who had seen Volpone would have endured sit- 
ting through The Fancies,^ The old playgoer might 
fidrly have regarded The Lady*s Trial as a tame, un- 
eventful, somewhat modernized version of The Winter^ s 
Tale, PerkinWarbeck i s a carefully constructed, well 
written, and highly respectable specimen of the English 
historical play. Produced at a date long after the vogue 
of the chronicle play had died away, it has attracted 
attention by its solitariness and has been highly praised. 
Placed beside Edward II, Richard III, Henry IF or 
Henry V it looks distinctly anaemic. Our dramatist, on 
the strength of this evidence, seems to lack ideas.* He 
catches a glimpse of an interesting dramatic situation, 
but he lacks the imagination to follow out its evolution, 

* Many situations in the two plays are parallel, and the supposed 
character of Octavio has something in common with that of Volpone. 

' The amount of credit that Ford should receive for T hf A tn'j 
Darling and Tht Witch of Edmonton is still disputable and, 
most problems in collaboration, probably always will be. Since space 
does not permit of any profitable discussion of them here, I prefer to 
pass them with a reference to F. F. Pierce's two articles on the 
collaboration of Dekke r and Ford in Anglioy xxxvi (1911). 

Slncroimction xxiii 

He has a certain pffT]pfra^^T^g insight i ^to the passionate 

rji^j^jhsmspint, but he lac ks the power of iny^ntln p 
arterig tif npHn" ^^^ *^^ ^^in^y ^r»t.rxe^ "'nnfll Fre- 
quently he sets to work in a very mechanical fashion to 
contrive a story to fit his characters, and, being a feeble 
plotter* too often contents himself with presenting the 
persons of the main plot in a flimsy patchwork of scenes 
pieced out to the length of a play by an irrelevant and 
tedious sub-plot. By common consent it has been de- 
cided that wit and humour were omitted from his en - 
dowment, and that his comic characters are among the 
worst in the history of the English drama. " ' 

Upon what, then, does Ford's reputation rest? In- 
dubitably upon his three tragedies, ' Th Pity. Tbi 

Broken Hear ty and Love* s Sacrifice ^ all published in 
103 3. Tike many another man of distmct but strictly lim- 
ited genius. Ford had two or three original ideas in him, 
uttered them with power, and then in a vain effort to re- 
peat his success puttered on from bad to worse. The fact 
seems to be that his genius remained somewhat lethargic 
unless his heart was engaged. It is highly significant 
that jn these three really noteworthy plays his theme is 
forbidden J ove. In each case he confronts what he re- 
gards as an essentially tragic problem ; and his construct- 
ive power, his characterization, and his poetry rise to 
the occasion. In each case he approaches his material 
with certain romantic preconceptions which give to his 
treatment of illicit passion an impressive consistency. He 
appears ^^J^fflif^" **^^lli ilff in his youth, th at lovebe^ 
tween thq pffXCfi ^'s "f mystical and divme origin, that it 
18 irresistibki and that it is the highest good, the en 




and aim of being . This certainly is the creed of his 
tragic chara cters. They believe in it uncompromisingly; 
tor It they are ready to die, reiterating their faith in the 
last disgrace and agony. In discussing the peculiar tragic 
effects which issue from this romantic creed I shall dis- 
regard the conjectural dates of the plays, and take them 
up in a kind of climactic order. This procedure is war- 
ranted by the facts, first, that the dates of composition 
appear to be indeterminable, and, second, that the dates 
iq"^ of composition do not affect the present discussion. 

The Broken Heart presents a clearly defined moral 
problem. Penthea, very much in love with Orgilus and 
betrothed to him, is forced to marry Bassanes. Orgilus, 
taking a purely rationalistic or idealistic view of the 
matter, refuses to acknowledge any validity in the union 
of Penthea and Bassanes. Frantic with indignant passion 
he cries: 

I would posseas my wife; the equity 

Of very reason bids me. • 

Penthea with a supreme effort preserves self-control, 
and urges her desperate lover to resign himself to the 
irrevocable, pleading that the true quality of their mu- 
tual affection will best show itself in virtuous submission 
to necessity. Which of the two is right? In Elizabethan 
times when parents disposed of tEeTf children in a rather 
more highhanded fashion than now obtains — when 
Penelope Devereux was carried protesting to the altar 
to marry Lord Rich — was it not a fair question? 

By a subtlety in feminine characterization unsurpassed 
if not unequalled in the period Ford reveals the fiill 
tragic meaning of the problem. Penthea' s conduct in 

JncroOttction xxv 

difficult crisis is beyond criticism. She shows ten-i 
less to her lover without tempting his weakness./ 
admits that they have been grievously wronged,\ 
she will not consent to his righting that wrong by I 
ther. Under the burden of her own sorrow she findsj 
Qgth to comfort his. Yet she is intensely human event 
iie height of an almost saintly renunciation; though 
has the rare charity to wish him happy with another 
;, she feels a sensitive solicitude for that wife's opin- 
of her. When she has finally been forced to send 
lover away with sharp words, she is torn by the 
flict of love and honor, and is dissolved in pity for 
suffering of the unhappy man. Having resolved, 
le what may, to respect the ceremonial bond, she 
it fight for honor in a long and silent inner struggle 
ehich victory is attended with no less misery than 
:at. For she is held in a living death by her rela- 
with Bassanes, her husband. The situation has 
1 a favorite on the modern stage. She is impaled on 
horns of a dilemma — dis honor in the arms of Qr- 

Oman and the weight of convention is heavy upon 
■^ ^^^7fiffi *^'* ^^pfin'mnti'^' ^^ rathe r than the unle-_- 

natized shams, Yet at last her revolted spirit bursts 

Sptiti(!:h; and she begs her brother Ithocles, who 

instrumental in her marriage, to idll her. ** How 

5 thy lord esteem thee? " asks the now remorsefiil 

Jier. Penthea's reply approaches the unbearable: 

Such an one 
Ab only you have made me; a ^th breaker, 

xxviii 3|ntro1ittction 

keeping the laws and statutes may sometimes mak 
against virtue, and the preservation of honor be 
wreck of peace. 

Before leaving this play we must give a word to 
eminently Fordian but far less complex cl o 

Orgilus. Convinced that Penthea's resolution wui nev< 
be moved, he fixes all his thoughts on revenge, and, i 
a kind of icy ardor or madness, murders Ithocles; fc 
which he is sentenced to death with the approval o 
those surviving in the last act. It is to be noted, how 
ever, that he welcomes death, dies bravely, and absc 
lutely unrepentant. The man i s. really depicted __a8 
martvr to the strength and fide lit y of his passion ; he 
an uncompromising idealist. 1 he laws against murd< 
must be recognized; but by emphasizing the outrag 
which Orgilus has suffered, the vehemence of passio 
by which he is consumed, and the stoical calm wit 
which he ifieets his fate. Ford has made him app 
rather a victim than a monster. The death of Penthea 
the murder of Ithocles, the execution of Bassanes, an 
the death of Calantha all prov g how fataLJL Js to^ijffi; 
resistance to omnipotent lov e. 

Love's Sacrifice f which treats of a more advanced d< 
gree of forbidden love than The Broken Heart, aroui 
in the reader a mingled feeling of admiration and dii 
gust. It is not so evenly and carefully composed a% 77 
Broken Heart, It admits unenlivening comic scei 
and an extensive and repulsive sub-plot. It employ 
prose freely, whereas The Broken Heart is entirely 
verse. Finally its moral issues are very badly defined 
and it ends weakly in dense moral confusion. On 

3|ntraBttction " xxvii 

the words ^^jpnn^pleY" ^r>A tftfprM.|» >»tn^Q^ATrt/^Tio for 
example, is pure; but her tragic emotion is simple. The 
tragic emotion of Cleopatra, on the other hand, may be 
described as complex; but she cannot be described as 
pure. And in general the tragic heroines of the period 
range themselves under one banner or the other: unjjer 
Desdemona's, Aspatia in the Maid^s Tragedy , the 
Duchess of Malfi, and Dorothea in the Virgin Martyr; 
under Cleopatra's, Tamyra in Bussy D* Ambois^ Evadne 
in the Maid^s Tragedy^ Vittoria in the White Devil, 
and Beatrice-Joanna in the Changeling. There is per- 
haps a third class of those who, like Mrs. Frankford in 
the Woman Killed with Kindness , are neither pure nor 
emotionally complex — weak sisters who are perfectly 
conventional even in their sins. The orthodox and un - 
adventurous ethics of the majority of the Elizabethan 
dramatists are seen in nothing more distinctly than in 
the tact that they keep their pure women out of moral 
dilemmas. In their representation of life the world may 
break the hearts of the innocent, but only the wicked, 
it seems, may break their own hearts. The tragic emo- 
tions of the pure are simple, because their disaster comes 
upon them from without; the tragic emotions of the 
guilty are complex, because their disaster is due to a 
discord in their own souls. In The B roken Heart 
Ford throws dow n th e gaundet to orthodox morality o 
placing a thorouehly pure ,Hr oman in a genuine mora 
'dilemma^ This is his most notable innovation. By estab - 
"lishiny th^ <;raf[i^ rnnflivt ~^\' t^*»rifhp7 in \\f-r nw^ spirit^ 
he makes of her a ^disH"^''^y mnrlf^i-n t ype of heroine. , In 
a mood of high and poignant seriousness he shows that 

xxviii 3|ntro1ittction 

keeping the laws and statutes may sometimes make 
against virtue, and the preservation of honor be the 
wreck of peace. 

Before leaving this play we must ^ve a word to the 
eminently Fordian but far less complex character of 
Orgilus. Convinced that Penthea's resolution will never 
be moved, he fixes all his thoughts on revenge, and, 
a kind of icy ardor or madness, murders Ithocles; tor 
which he is sentenced to death with the approval of 
those surviving in the last act. It is to be noted, how- 
ever, that he welcomes death, dies bravely, and abso- 
lutely unrepentant. The man is really depicted as a 
martvr to the strength and fi delit y of his passion; he is 
an uncompromising idealist. 1 he laws against murder 
must be recognized; but by emphasizing the outrage 
which Orgilus has suffered, the vehemence of passion 
by which he is consumed, and the stoical calm with 
which he ifieets his fate. Ford has made him appear 
rather a victim than a monster. The death of Penthea, 
the murder of Ithocles, the execution of Bassanes, and 
the death of Calantha all fataLit Js-JiLi)!^ 
res istanc e to omnipotent love. 

Love* s Sacrifice y which treats of a more advanced de- 
gree of forbidden love than The Broken Hearty arouses 
in the reader a mingled feeling of admiration and dis- 
gust. It is not so evenly and carefully composed a% The 
Broken Heart, It admits unenlivening comic scenes 
and an extensive and repulsive sub-plot. It employs 
prose freely, whereas The Broken Heart is entirely in 
verse. Finally its moral issues are very badly defined, 
and it ends weakly in dense moral confusion. On the 

3lntrointctloti xxix 

other hand, the plot of Lovers Sacrifice is a more mod- 
em conception. The principal characters are drawn 
with a bolder and more energetic stroke. The atmos- 
phere has a warmth and color not found in the Spartan 
play. And in the two or three best scenes there is a 
sheer dramatic intensity unsurpassed elsewhere in Ford's 

Lovers Sacrifice is distinctly modem in conception, 
for it deals seriously with ** elective affinities" after 
marriage. The Duke of CaraSa loves and marries Bi- 
anca, a respectable woman of inferior rank, who re- 
spects her husband's position and virtues but feels no 
great affection for him. Then appears Femando, young, 
handsome, captivating, the third person of what we 
have learned to call the ** inevitable triangle." He con- 
ceives a violent passion for Bianca, which, as often as 
he declares, she virtuously repulses. But these oft-re- 
peated protestations of love, though they do not at once 
conquer her will, insidiously take possession of her 
heart. The critical turn in the unequal duel is subtly 
conceived. In a moment of unusual temptation Fer- 
nando renews his fiery pleading, and once more Bi- 
anca with greater vehemence and asperity than ever 
spurns him from her. The impetuous lover is at last 
touched in his better self by her constancy, and begs 
forgiveness; which being granted, they bid each other 

But alas for the perverse reactions of the human 
spirit! Bianca' 8 virtue has cooled Fernando' s passion; 
but Bianca' s passion is kindled by Fernando' s virtue. 
While he assailed her, she stood on her guard; when he 

XXX 3|ntroimccion 

desists from his attack, her defenses fall. Distr 

with stifled emotions, she steals into Fernando' s c 

ber, clad only in her night mantle, and finds 

sleeping. His quick forgetfulness bewilders her. 

wakes him, and, as if frenzied by some demoniac pc 

lays bare her soul in an agony of confession, in s 

and in sorrow: 

Howc*cr my tongue 
Did often chide thy love, each word thou spak'tt 
Was music to my ear; was never poor, 
Poor wretched woman liv*d that Iov*d like me. 
So truly, so unfeignedly. 

I vow*d a vow to live a constant wife : 
I have done so ; nor was there in the world 
A man created could have broke that truth 
For all the glories of the earth but thou, 
But thou, Fernando ! Do I love thee now ? 

Fernando, amazed by her abandonment to a passi< 
much more imperious than his own, can only : 
** Beyond imagination! " She hurries breathlessl) 

True, I do. 
Beyond imagination: if no pledge 
Of love can instance what I speak is true 
But loss of my best joys, here, here, Fernando, 
Be satisfied, and ruin me. 

Again Fernando is so stunned that she has to make 
clear what she means. But on the heels of surrc 
she cries: 

Mark me now. 
If thou dost spoil me of this robe of shame. 
By my best comforts, here I vow again, 
To thee, to heaven, to the world, to time. 
Ere yet the morning shall new -christen day, 
ril kill myself! 

3|ntrofittrtion xxxi 

Say what we will of the character of this woman — 
and there is little question what we shall have to say — 
here is the very whirlwind of conflicting emotions. It is 
doubtless a situation which should never be shown upon 
the stage; but it is wonderfully realized. It is morbid; 
but it is terrific — this love which must express its utter- 
mosty though the cost be death. Beside the tragic tem- 
pest in the body and soul of the woman, Fernando* s 
ardor seems but a little warmth of the blood. He shrinks 
before the storm he has raised, and, scarcely more 
from consideration than from terror, he reftises her sacri- 
fice. The momentous meeting ends with mutual vows 
of love which is to keep on the hither side of criminal 

Up to this point the main story is conducted with 
great strength and skill. The characters are clearly con- 
ceived and consistently portrayed. The action is clean 
and swift, with telling interplay of opposed wills 
strained in the crisis to the breaking point on the brink 
of disastrous decision. But after the supremely dra- 
matic midnight meeting Bianca and Fernando begin to 
lose their bearings, and unhappily Ford seems to lose 
his bearings, too. The lovers grow less and less Pla- 
tonic; their pledges prove poor shifts with the devil. In 
the fifth act they are indulging in dangerous specula- 
tions. Bianca spades: 

Why shouldst thou not be mine ? Why should the laws. 

The iron laws of ceremony, bar 

Mutual embraces ? What's a vow ? a vow ? 

Can there be sin in unity ? 

xxxii 3nntroiitt(tlon 

I had rather change my fife 
With any waldng-woman in the land 
To purchase one night*8 rest with thee, Fernando, 
Than be Carafia's spouse a thousand years. 

The duke interrupts their embraces with drawn sword. 
Instead of showing fear or imploring pardon^ fiianca 
turns hussy, flaunts her love for Fernando, and courts 
death, although at the same time she declares that she 
is innocent. Goaded at length to fury, the duke gives 
her a mortal wound. Bianca dies with these extraordi- 
nary words on her lips: 

Live to repent too Ute. Commend my lore 
To thy true fnend, my love to him that owes it; 
My tragedy to thee; my heart to — to — Femandow 

And so the tragic heroine passes away without a thought 
of repentance, without a shadow of suspicion that 
she has anything of which to repent. Indeed she ac- 
cepts her martyrdom, confident of her innocence as a 
very Desdemona. Her great love for Fernando she 
wears as a crown of glory. Yet, it is sufficiently plain, 
though she has abstained from the sin of the flesh, that 
her mind is as spotted with adultery as the merest 

Moreover, from this scene to the end of the play it 
is indubitable that Ford takes precisely Bianca' a pou- 
tion — that he wishes to leave the impression that she 
is a perfectly irreproachable woman. He makes Fer- 
nando assure the duke's counsellors that "a be 
woman never blessed the earth." They agree, and 
take his side against the ** jealous madman," her h 
band. At the point of death Fernando assures the d 

3|ncroimctton xxxiii 

that the world's wealth could not redeem the loss of 
** such a spotless wife." The duke agrees, and repents 
of his ** hellish rage," declaring that "so chaste, so 
dear a wife" no man ever enjoyed. His faithful sec- 
retary, who first awakened his suspicions, is to be 
hanged on the prison top as a damned villain till he 
starve to death. He looks upon himself — so do the 
rest — as a rash murderer. In remorse he commits 
suicide, having first given orders that he be buried in 
one tomb with his chaste wife and his ** unequalled 
friend," Fernando! And in his last breath he hopes 
that his fate vdll be a warning to jealous husbands. 

Now the conclusion of this play must seem to every 
person of normal sense singularly wrong, weak, and 
fiitile. In the beginning of it every one knows what is 
decent; in the middle Fernando and Bianca grow skep- 
tical as to what is decent; in the end no one knows what 
is decent — not even the author. That is the impression 
Lovers Sacrifice makes upon the modem reader. Never- 
theless, Ford would doubtless have denied that there had 
been any moral vacillation on his part; and, indeed, it is 
not difficult to show that he has treated his theme in per- 
fect consistency with his romantic convictions. Love, as 
he had declared in Honour Triumphanty he regarded 
as the supreme good in life and as the irresistible master 
of the destinies of those whom it has joined together. 
Bianca and Fernando, therefore, in loving each other 
5ven unto death are not only fulfilling their inevitable 
destinies, but are also pursuing their supreme good. Of 
rgurse. Ford might say, it was unfortunate that they did 
lot meet before Bianca was married. That was their 

xxxiv 3lncrainiction 

fatal misfortune; that was their tragedy. Yet on t 
whole how nobly they conducted themselves unc 
the stress of adverse circumstances. They recognized t 
genera] force of the matnmonial bond, and they wit 
held from their love its natural sustenance in order x 
to violate that bond. As for refraining from love itsc 
that were as impossible as drawing the stars from thi 
courses. Even the jealous husband, then, must conft 
that they conformed to the limit of their power wi 
the conventions of this somewhat helter skelter worl 
In some such fashion as this Ford himself must have 
tified the work. 

' TVi Pity is e xtremely interesting both as a p ai 
as a psychological document; for it represents t he ni 
of Ford's achievement as a dramatist and the dept«. 
his corruption as an apostle of passion. The atteranc 
of critics upon it from the seventeenth century to t 
present day emphasize the necessity of a divided jud 
ment. Langbaine declared ''that it equals any of o 
author's plays; and were to be commended, did not t 
author paint the incestuous love between Giovanni 
his sister Annabella in too beautiful colours." Lan 
pointed out that "even in the poor perverted reason 
Giovanni and Annabella, we discover traces of that i 
particle, which in the irregular starting from out of 
road of beaten action, discovers something of a rig 
line even in obliquity, and shows hints of an impro 
able greatness in the lowest descents and degradatio 
of our nature." GifFord substantially reiterated tl 
sentiments of Langbaine: ''It [the poetry] is in tm 
too seductive for the subject, and flings a sofr and soot) 

Introimction xxxv 

ng light over what in its natural state would glare with 
lalutary and repulsive horror." Fleay is even more 
)iting; he says: ** Well allowed of, when acted, by the 
iarl of Peterborough to whom he dedicated it. So it is 
low by some critics and publishers . . . but not by 
iny well regulated mind." In connection with Fleay' s, 
he comment of Ellis is striidng: •* In 'TV/ P//y," says 
Sllis, ''Ford touched the highest point that he ever 
eached. He never succeeded in presenting an image 
lo simple, passionate, and complete, so free compara- 
ively from mixture of weak or base elements as that of 
he boy and girl lovers who were brother and sister. 
Q^e jjra ^c ^^orv is unrolled from first to last with fine 
Tuth and clear perceptions ." Ward says, ** The 
joison of this poetic treatment of mortal sin is dissolved 
n a cup of sweetness. ' ' Schelling finds in it ** consum- 
nate poetic art ... a strange and unnatural origi- 

ty like a gorgeous and scented but poisonous exotic 
M jungle." 

ut all these criticisms Lamb's seems to me the most 
penetrating and the most illuminating. Speaking in his 
poetical Brunonian fashion of ** that fiery particle " and 
Jie •* something of a right line even in obliquity " he 
:ouches upon the intense romantic idealism which 
narks all Ford's lovers, and which is the fundamental 
md controlling spirit in all Ford's most characteristic 
^ork. It will not do to attribute his amazing attempt 
:o excite sympathy for the depraved hero and heroine to 
:he general spirit of the time ; the unnatural passion 
^hich is the theme of his play was quite as abhorrent to 
:ommon feelings in the age of Charles I. as it is today. 

xxxvi JIntroimttian 

Indeed, there is some evidence that it was even more 
abhorrent. In the Calendar of State Papers for j6ji, 
two years before the publication of * Tis Pity, is re- 
corded under the date of May 12a" sentence of the 
ecclesiastical commissioners upon Sir Giles Allington for 
intermarrying with Dorothy Dalton, daughter of Mi- 
chael Dalton and his wife, which latter was half-sister to 
Sir Giles." A few days later the Rev. Joseph Mead 
writing to Sir Martin Stuteville dwells upon the im- 
pressiveness of the trial at which eight bishops presided, 
and upon the heavy penalties imposed, which included 
a fine of ^^2000 upon the procurer of the license. In 
conclusion Mead writes: ** It was the solemnest, the 
gravest and the severest censure that ever, they say, 
was made in that court." ' 

It is possible that this case, doubtless the talk of Lon- 
don, may have suggested to Ford the composition of 
*Tis Pity, It was exactly the situation to appeal to his 
sympathies as a poet and to his interest as a lawyer. 
Here again, as in the Devonshire-Rich affair, the im- 
pulses of the heart were in conflict with the vrorld's 
laws as defined by the ecclesiastical court. The Bishop 
of London had pronounced Sir Giles Allington *8 mar- 
riage a most heinous crime. But Ford did not look to 
bishops for his moral judgments; his court of last appeal 
was the small circle of those unfettered spirits who re- 
cognized a kind of higher morality in obedience to the 
heart. It would at any rate have accorded with bis 
temper and his previous work to write a play presen 
a case of incest much more flagrant than that before tne 

' Court and Times of Char la /., vol. 11, p. 119. 

3|ntrolittction xxxvii 

public yet so veiled with poetical glamour as to elicit 
for the criminals both pity and admiration. That, at 
least, is what he did. 

He approaches the theme not with the temper of a 
stem realist bent on laying bare the secret links of cause 
and effect in a ferocious and ugly story of almost un- 
mentionable lust and crime, but with the temper of a 
decadent romanticist bent on showing the enthralling i 
power of physical beauty and the transfiguring power! 
of passion. He accordingly makes the ill-starred Gio- 
vanni and Annabella the well-bred offspring of a pros- 
perous gentleman of Parma. The young man has had 
every opportunity of religious training, study at the 
university, and intercourse with good society. The ^rl, 
brought up carefully in her father's house^ is endowed 
with every grace of mind and body, and is flattered by 
the attention of distinguished suitors. 

But like their author they have been nourished on 
that great mass of Renaissance literature which in Italy 
and in England establishes the religion and theology of 
earthly love. In the opening scene Giovanni, already 
in the throes of passion, fortifies himself with philo- 
sophical authority, casuistical argument, and Platonic 
nonsense quite in the vein of Spenser's hymns. Shock- 
ing as it is, we must recognize that this blossomed 
corruption is rooted in the fair garden of Elizabethan 
romance. To Giovanni, as to the youthful Spenser, 
love is the supreme thing in the world, beauty the un- 
questioned object of adoration. Since he finds this 
adorable beauty in his sister, his soul conforming to 
its celestial nature must bow and worship. Duty in its 

xxxviii 3|ttttOllttCtlon 

ordinary sense is not in this field at all; the soul's duty 
is complete submission to the divinity of beauty — 

Must I not praise 
That beauty which, if fram*d anew, the godi 
Would make a god of, if they had it there, 
And kneel to it, as I do kneel to them ? 

This note is struck again and again; thus in complaint: 

The love of thee, my sister, and the view 
Of thy immortal beauty have untun*d 
All harmony both of my rest and life. 

Thus argumentatively: 

Wise nature first in your creation meant 

To make you mine, else*t had been sin and foul 

To share one beauty to a double soul. 

In another more extended passage he actually makes 
the Platonic identification of the good and the beautiful, 
repeating in part exactly the argument which Ford had 
employed in Honour Triumphant when defending the 
position, ** Fair lady was never false " : 

What I have done 1*11 prove both fit and good. 

It is a principle which you have taught, 

When I was yet your scholar, that the frame 

And composition of the mind doth follow 

The firame and composition of the body: 

So where the body^s furniture is beauty, 

The mind's must needs be virtue ; which allow* d. 

Virtue itself is reason but refin'd, 

And love the quintessence of that: this proves. 

My sister's beauty being rarely feir 

Is rarely virtuous; chieHy in her love, 

And chiefly in that love, her love to me. 

According to the romantic creed the worship of 
beauty is not merely the soul's duty; it is also the soul's 

mntroOuction xxxix 

necessity. Hence Giovanni's reiterated accent upon 

Lost ! I am lost ! my htea have doomM my death: 
The more I strive I love. 

Giovanni distinguishes between the common motions 
of the blood and the inexorable power not himself: 

Or I must speak or burst. *Tis not, I know, 
My lust, but 'tis my fate that leads me on. 

He recognizes that resistance to this power is mortal: 

*Tis my destiny 
That you must either love, or I must diie. 

Under the stress of his passion Giovanni becomes 
an absolutely uncompromising exponent of Ford's ro- 
mantic idealism. In the first part of the play he exhibits 
some regard, though slight respect, for ordinary mo- 
rality. But he is soon brushing aside his scruples with 
the impatient inquiry: 

Shall a peevish sound, 
A customary form, from man to man, 
Of brother and of sister, be a bar 
*Twixt my perpetual happiness and me ? 

And before long he has resolved that prayer and heaven 
and sin are ** dreams and old men's tales to fright un- 
steady youth." In this conviction he is confirmed by 
Annabella's acknowledgment that he had captivated 
her heart long before he challenged her to surrender. 
By making her yield at once with an abandon equal to 
Giovanni's Ford plainly intends to show that the souls 
of the brother and sister were predestined for union in 
that Platonic heaven of lovers whence they came. With 

xi inntroOuction 

this conviction strong upon them both, they fall upon 
their knees and vow the most astounding vow by the 
sacredness of their mother's ashes to be true one to 
the other. It is the passionate fidelity of Giovanni to his 
vow, his desperate single-mindedness, which lends to 
this terrible transaction its evil splendor. Later, under 
the shadow of impending doom, the Friar makes a vain 
effort to shake the young man's resolution. If it were 
possible for a moment to forget the monstrosity of the 
affair, the fierce ecstasy of Giovanni's reply might stir 
a tragic thrill: 

Friar. The throne of mercy b above your trespass; 
Yet time is left you both — 

Gio. To embrace each other, 

Else let all time be struck quite out of number. 

So, too, the martyr-like rapture of Annabella when, 
her crime confessed, she is threatened by her husband 
with instant death: 

CAe morte piu dolce che morire per amoref 

and as he hales her up and down by the hdr: 

Morendo in grazia dee morire senza dolore. 

As the fatal net closes around the lovers, Focd seems 
to summon all his powers to represent their misery as 
the price of their devotion to the highest ends of which 
their souls are capable. Giovanni nerves himself to take 
vengeance upon his enemies that when he falls he may 
die a "glorious death.*' He slays his sister — not in 
a blind rage, but to save her from the vile world — 
tenderly and with a kiss and crying: 

Go thou, white in thy soul, to fill a throne 
Of innocence and sanctity in heaven. 

mntroouction xH 

Then turning away as from the sacrifice of a white 
lamb without blemish to the god of love, this fervid 
idealist, fresh from adultery, incest and murder, bids 
his heart stand up and act its ** last and greatest part " 
— another murder! Dying, he seals with his last 
breath his faith in the passion that has wrecked his life: 

Where* er I go, let me enjoy this grace, 
Freely to view my Annabella^s face. 

Now it appears to me incontestable that a dramatist 
who seeks such effects as ' Tis Pity produces must write 
with a conscious and clearly-defined theory. I Ford can- 
not be explained as an imitator of his contemporaries ; 
for his impressive attempt to make his auditors believe i/j/ 
in the whitenesss of a soul despite the abhorrent pollu- 
tion of its fleshly envelope is without precedent in the 
English drama of his age. 4 The man is original in his 
fundamental con cepti oiTgr the nature of tragedy . I am 
not sure, with Mavelock iillis, that Ford "foreboded 
new ways of expression " ; his analytic power, so 
much commented upon by his critics, he shares with 
Shakespeare and Middleton and Webster. I think it 
clear, however, that, so far as English drama is con- 
cerned, he did forebode a modern conception of the 
tragic conflict. That is to say, while his contemporaries 
continued to represent the tragic catastrophe as the 
disastrous issue of a clash between good and evil, he 

' There is sufficient non-dramatic precedent; compare these lines 
from Spenser*s " Hymne in Honour of Beautie **: 

Nathelesse the soule is &ire and beauteous still, 
How ever fleshes fault it filthy make; 
For things immortal no corruption take. 


xlii 3|ntnNKtctioii 

seized the subtler and more bitter and less sahitaiy 
tion, familiar enough to-day, that the tragic c«tagtr9] 

rgaul^ from the rlfl«h nf r||y'^ tive gOOd WJth thc au- 

solute good . In other words, he foreboded a new way 
of envisaging morality. Recall Giovanni's valedictioo 
to the soul of hb sister, and then read these words 
from Maurice Maeterlinck's ' Treasure of the Humble: 

<< It would seem as though our code of morality were 
changing, advancing with timid steps toward loftier re- 
gions that cannot be seen. And the moment has perhaps 
come when certain new questions should be asked. . . . 
What would happen if the soul were brought into a tri- 
bunal of souls? Of what would she be ashamed? Which 
are the things she ^n would hide? Would she, like a 

' It 'm noteworthy in this connection that Maeterlinck has adapted 
* Til Pity for the modem stage: tee Bibliography. M. Maeterlinck 
it, qH course, also familiar with Platonic and Neo-Platonic theories. 
Hb modem heresy is simply a resuscitation oli an obsolete, poetical 

Charles Lamb rather curiously quoted as comment upon his sdec- 
tion from this play a sonorous passage of Sir Thomas Browne's PseU" 
dodoxia Epidemica, of which thb b the gist: <* Of sins heterocfital, 
and such as want either name or precedent, there is oft-times a sin eren 
in their hbtories.** Weber, GifJbrd, and Dycein their complete edi- 
tions of the tragedy have with even less appositeness reproduced the 
passage. Loath to depart from the fine tradition — now a century 
old — of remembering Browne on this occasion, I respectfully sug- 
gest to future editors of Ford the substitution of the following maxims 
from Christian Morals : ** Live by old ethics and the classical rules 
of honesty. Put no new names or notions upon authentic virtues 
and vices. Think not that morality b ambulatory; that vices in one 
age are not vices in another; or that virtues, which are under the 
everlasting seal of right reason, may be stamped by opinion. And 
therefore though vicious times invert the opinions of things, and 
set up a new ethics against virtue, yet hold thou unto old morality.** 

Introduction xiiii 

bashful maiden, cloak beneath her long hair the number- 
less sins of the flesh? She knows not of them, and those 
sins have never come near her. They were committed a 
thousand miles from her throne; and the soul even of the 
prostitute would pass unsuspectingly through the crowd, 
with the transparent smile of the child in her eyes." 

Whatever we may think of ^^afitsljfld^ mystical 
theory — I, for one, consider it beautiful and pernicious 
nonsense — it is worth while to observe that his dra- 
matic illustration of it is entirely different from Ford's. 
He has the tact to perceive that plays built upon this 
theor}*^ have no place upon the realistic stage. He is 
even doubtfiil whether genuine tragedies of the spirit 
can be fitly represented by actors at all. They must 
touch the sympathy of the reader invisibly as he sits 
brooding in quietness, and Jike the indefinable appeal 
of music be felt rather than understood. Accordingly in 
his earlier work Maeterlinck divested his scene of every 
reminder of the gross and to him insignificant physical 
world, in order to make clear a stage for the interaction 
of almost disembodied spirits. In the dim light of the 
wan Arthurian realm where his tragedies are set, the 
passions ebb and flow with the tides of an unplumbed 
and uncharted sea, by whose waters naked soul meets 
naked soul under the wings of destiny. No question 
rises there of heredity, training, environment; for only 
immortal and immaterial essences are there engaged; 
and they cannot be afl^ected by these mortal and ma- 
terial forces. 

Ford's theory of the inviolability of the soul has 
much in common with Maeterlinck's. It seems, how- 

xiiv 3|ncroimctlon 

ever, much more startling because it is clothed in very 
human flesh and blood, and set upon a realistic stage. 
Ford presents his hero and heroine, for such they must 
be called, in the light of common day. He prepares us 
for a tragedy in which we should witness the operationi 
of the laws of this world; but he presents us a tragedy in 
which the protagonists are emancipated from the laws 
of this world, and act in accordance with the laws of a 
tflatgHteed Arcacha J They are idealists in one worlds 
but criminal degenerates in the othe r. 

The originality of '77; Pity has been pretty gen- 
erally conceded, at least by English critics; but it has 
not always been made sufficiently clear that the f rjg i- 
nality lies i^i ^\^ ^Tt-^tm^^t oryA not in the choice of the 
theme. As a matter of fact this subject was handled by 
several of Ford's important contemporaries, and it may 
be worth while briefly to indicate their decisively differ- 
ent method of approaching it. The crime here involved 
constitutes, it will be recalled, one of the iniquitous 
elements in the marriage of Claudius and Gertrude in 
Hamlet^ and it furnishes a shuddering background of 
horror for the first act of Pericles, To the healthy mind 
of Shakespeare it is clearly a matter abhorrent. It is a 
part of a tangled web of lust which Tourneur made into 
the Revenger* s Tragedy, But though Tourneur chose 
corrupt materia], he dealt with it in a sound fashion. 
With him there was no poetical glozing, no veil of il- 
lusion cloaking the beast, no scape-goat fate occupying 
the place of the abdicating will, no ** higher morality** 
subtly aspersing common decency. When his charac- 
ters commit gross or unnatural crimes, he makes it 

mntroimction xiv 

•erfectly apparent that the moving force is bestial drunk- 
nness or physical degeneracy, not celestial foreordina- 
ion. Thus the incestuous Spurio cries: 

1 was begot in impudent wine and lust. 
Step-mother, I consent to thy desires. 

(eaumont and Fletcher's' King and No King has for 
:8 central theme the love of Arbaces for his supposed 
ister, Panthea. But in the end it transpires that Arbaces 
} a changeling, and in reality not related at all to Pan- 
hea. Nevertheless the authors do not wholly rely upon 
he unexpected denouement to explain the moral aberra- 
lon of the hero. They tell us in the first place that Pan- 
hea was but nine years old when Arbaces left her not 
return till she had reached her maturity; consequently 
e appears to be smitten rather with a fair stranger than 
(rith a sister. And in the second place they spare no 
•ains to present him as a man of abnormally violent and 
nruly temperament. Furthermore, when after fearful 
truggles his passion begins to master him, he does not 
ustify himself as an apostle of love and beauty and their 
* higher" reasonableness; on the contrary he declares: 

I have lost 
The only difference betwixt man and beast, 
My reason. 

Lnd Panthea, instead of admitting with Annabella 
aat her lover has ** won the field and never fought," 
ivears that she would rather ** search out death" than 
'welcome such a sin." Fortunately Beaumont and 
'letcher rescue her fi-om the predicament by showing 
lat the dilemma never existed. In Brome's Love-Sick 

xivi 3|ncroiitt(tlon 

Court the supposedly incestuous passion^ which is t 
subsidiary element in the play, is in a siniilar way 
proved innocent by disclosures in the last act. Between 
Middleton's Women Beware fVomen and * Tis Fit] | 
there is a very considerable parallelism of situation; in ! 
both plays there is a group of uncle, nephew and ser- 
vant engaged in the courtship of a woman already in- 
volved in criminal relations with a near kinsman. But 
parallelism of treatment there is not. For one thing, the 
criminal relationship is entered upon in partial ignorance 
of its nature; for another, there is not the slightest at- | 
tempt to idealize the character of the union. The play 
is constructed by a realist who is interested in showing 
how crime punishes itself by natural laws. In the £/«- 
natural Combat — of which the title alone suggests a 
significant difference from ' Tis Pity — Massinger pre- 
sents a situation similar to that of Shelley's Cenci, and 
treats it with ardstic seriousness and the most uncom- 
promising moral severity. He prepares the way fw 
Malefort's ultimate degradation by making him the pois- 
oner of bis wife and the murderer of his son before he 
becomes the lover of his daughter. And yet he makes 
even Malefort shudder before his last temptadon and 
clearly recognize its character: Malefort, infinitely 
wickeder and wiser than Giovanni, says in so many 
words that the torch which kindles his wild desires was 
not lighted at Cupid's altars, but was thrown into his 
bosom from hell. Vile though he is, he possesses the 
moral vision and candor of the Shakesperean villain. 
His passion, needless to say, is not reciprocated. He 
dies, not like Giovanni resolute and unshaken in hit 

mntroOttction xivH 

sinister idealism but rather like Marlowe's Faustus, in 
terrific moral agony, cursing his ** cause of being." The 
tragedy ends with a tremendous vindication of ** the 
sacred laws of God and man prophaned"; the last 
speech of Malefort is cut short by a thunderbolt which 
kills him. That flash of lightning may fairly be consid- 
ered as Massinger's conmient on incest — a comment, 
on the whole, rather more illuminating and salutary than 
the tearfiil couplet in which Ford's Cardinal bids a 
compassionate adieu to Annabella. 

This examination of plays related in subject to ' Tis 
Pity serves but to emphasize Ford's independence of his 
English contemporaries so far as treatment is concerned. 
I have, nevertheless, taken pains to say that his attitude 
toward incestuous passion is without precedent in Eng- 
lish drama. It is not without precedent in It alian. 
drama. I refer to a play which so far as I know has 
never been employed to explain ' Tis Pity — Ca nace } 
MacareOjjaL tragedy written on classical models by 
Sperone Speroni. a distinguished critic, orator, and 
poet of the sixteenth century. If, as Professor Schelling 
asserts. Ford did indeed show a remarkable ** freedom 
from the influence of Italian models," * the analogies be- 
tween these two plays, both in plot and in treatment, 
are surprising. If Ford did not write with a knowledge 
of Speroni' 8 work, he at least wrote thoroughly in the 
spirit of it. It may even be said, I think without dan- 
ger of contradiction, that Canace e Macareo is a more 

* Elizabethan Drama, vol. ii, p. 333. The statement may have 
been influenced byKoeppel, S^elUn-Studien, p. 176: *^Ford*s lite- 
rarisches Lebenswerk tit fait gan%frti von italienischen Einjiiisien,** 

II I I M t i« K 


plausible ** soorce " for ' Tis Pity than aii3rthhig dut 
has been proposed heretofore. 

The Italian play is a humanized dramatization of a 
myth treated by Ovid in Heroides, xi» a frequent pdnt 
of reference for Elizabethan casuists. The theme is the 
tragical ending of the incestuous loves of Canace and 
Macareo, the fair son and daughter of Eolo (.£olus). 
As in ' Tis Pity^ their criminal intercourse is revealed 
by its unhappy fruit. On discovering the state of afiain, 
Eolo forces his daughter to kill herself. Macareo takei 
his own life. As in ' Tis Pity^ the lovers die amid the 
suspended gayety of a birthday celebradon. The nune 
of Canace corresponds accurately in filnction to the 
''tutoress" of Annabella; the servant of Macareo 
corresponds roughly to the confessor of Giovanni; and 
there are some other^minor correspondences. 

• 3'**^^ The reaUy striking parallelism, however, ia in j^ 
^y»wA "^ treatment . Speroni. like Ford, bends all his energies to 

^ ^1(0^ the task of soliciting pity and admiration for the un- 
natural lovers. He, too, insists that they are driven oa 
not by lust but by fate or divine foreordering: 

Ma quel vero intelletto, che dal cielo 

Alia mente materaa 

Mostra in sogno il mio error sotto alcun velo^ 

Sa bien che *1 mio peccato, 

Non malizia mortale, 

Ma fu celeste forza, 

Che ogni nostra virtu vince ed ammorza. 

He, too, makes his hero a Renaissance Platonist, iden- 
tifying the good and the beautiful and the worship of 
beauty with the love of virtue. Macareo, like Giovansi» 
regards his love as a proof of his intelligence: 



Amo infinitamente e Tolenderi 
Le beUezze, i costumi, e le Tirtud 
Di mia sorella, e panni 
Che indegnamente degno 
Sana di sendmento e di ragione, 
Chi 81 rare eccellenze non amasse, 
Ovunque d le trovasse. 

When danger threatens, Macareo is ready to rush 
on death without fear, for the &tal blade will release 
from the erring flesh his immaculate soul {^Panima im- 
tnaculata). In the other world he hopes to be reunited 
to his sister; even the verbal parallelism is close here. 
Anticipating CTovanni's 

Wherever I go, let me enjoy this grace, 
Freely to view my Annabella*8 face 

Macareo says: 

In etemo vivri Tanima mia: 
£ fia 8U0 paradiso 
II poter vagheggiare 
L*ombra del suo be! viso. 

goth lovc rsjie^imrepfintant and in unshaken loyalty to 
each other. Canace, on her deathbed, says that her one 
consolation is the knowledge that her name and &ce 
will live in the heart of her brother, to whom she sends 
this message: 

Moriamo volentieri, 

Tu per esser fedele, io per amare. 

This b precisely the spirit of Annabella's 

Che morte piu dolce che morire per amore? 

After the death of the children, Eolo repents of his 
part in it, and declares that he has earned for himself 


.k^ _^f 


eternal infamy by ending the lives of tfaote whoa 
fault was that they loved. For, says he, ** presc 
future times, forgetting their amorous errors, will 
only my cruelty." Here Eolo anticipates the < 
of Giovanni, 

If crer after-dmes thodd hear 
Of our fast-knh aficctioDS, though perfaa^ 
The laws of conscience and of civil oae 
May justly blame us, yet when they but know 
Our loves, that love will wipe away diat rigour 
Which would in other incests be abhorred. 

Canace e Macareo seems to have impressed Sp 
contemporaries much as ' Tis Pity impresses us t 
for in the polite and learned circles of sixteenth c 
"l Italy it produced a critical controversy as interes 
the play itself. The summaries and fragments 
lectures in defense of the tragedy delivered in the 
demia degli Elcvati in Padua are particularly 
inating, because they express substantially what 
would probably have said had he been challen 
defend ' Tis Pity, Since it is by no means imp 
that Ford knew Speroni's defense as well as his c 
it may not be amiss briefly to suggest the nature 
arguments. ' 

' Sperone Speroni was bom in 1500 and died in 158S 
young man he was professor of logic at Padua. In 1528 
signed his chair and devoted himself to a life of schdai^ 
In 1 546 the first authentic editi<Mi of Canace was pubtishei 
tragedy gave rise to a critical controversy which continue* 
mittingly till 1 590. Spenmi was also audior of numerous 
treatises and dialogues on language, love, ladies, etc., and 
copious correspondent with Italian poets and men of lett 
1551 eight of the dialogues were translated into French. (U 

inncroimction u 

The weightiest charge against Canace e Macareo was 
:hat the chief characters, being thoroughly vicious 
[scelerate)y had according to Aristotelian canons no 
Dlacc in tragedy. To this the reply is made that they 
ictually appeared in tragedy of Aristotle's day, and 
:hat they are not thoroughly vicious, but middling 
rharacters, neither perfectly good nor perfectly bad. In 
his connection, Speroni reminds his hearers of two ar- 
;;uments urged by Dejopeja, wife of Eolo. The chil- 
Iren did not deserve death, she maintained, first, 
)ecause they had merely done perforza what the gods 
lo per volonta in heaven; second, because they had 
lone that in the Iron Age which was permitted in the 
nnocent Age of Gold. This position is supported by 
I multitude of references to the poets. Then, glancing 
It the customs of the ancient Persians and Egyptians, 

lonsiderable &me and influence of Speroni in France see Let Sources 
lunnes de la " Deffense et Illustration de la Langue FranfoisCf** 
risrre Villey, Parb, 1908.) Professor Spingam informs me that 
here are ** constant allusions to him in the earlier French criticism 
— e.g. , La Mesnardiere, Poetique, 1 640 ' * j it seems probable that 
Snglish acquaintance with him in the seventeenth century was fre- 
inently second hand. The earliest English reference that I find is 
n Coryat's Crudities^ 161 1. Coryat describes the statue of Speroni 
Palace at Padua and transcribes the Latin epitaph beneath 
u rtc this time, says Coryat, there were 1500 students at the uni- 
rersity — among them many Englishmen. Later references and 
dons may be found in Sir William Alexander's Anacrisisj .^1634 
o(«ingam*s Critical Essays of the Seventeenth Century^ i, 185); 
Slider's Upon Critics, ? 1678 {Critical Essays, 11, 280); Rymcr's 
Tragedies of the Last Age, 1678 (page 77 in the second edition, 
[692) — Rymer gives the plot of Canace at some length and dis- 
»Me8 it; Dryden's Sylvae, 1685 (Ker's Essays of John Dryden^ i, 


Hi 3|tttrolmctton 

Speroni comes to a point of distinct coincidence with 
Ford, namely, that the union of brother and sister ii 
forbidden not by nature but by the laws^ and not even 
by all laws. Therefore, as the example of the best 
poets proves, things done under the influence of im- 
measurable love are not to be classed as crimintl. ** It 
may be objected," he says in substance, *' that I my- 
self have in the play called the lovers sceUrate. Not 
so; do not confound me with the persons of the tra- 

In his second lecture Speroni attempts to prove that 
pity falls justly in every case upon those who have suf- 
fered for love. To defend this position he resorts to 
exacdy that form of romantic logic which we observed 
in Ford's youthful pamphlets and later in the mouth of 
Giovanni. It is the privilege of unfortunate lovers to 
be pitied; for love is the desire of beauty. The recog- 
nition of beauty is the function of man which distin- 
guishes him from the brute. It is peculiar to man to 
recognize and delight in beauty, because it is the func- 
tion of reason. For beauty consists in proportion, and 
agreement and order of the parts; but where these ex- 
ist, there are also prius and posterius and antecedens and 
consequens ; and these things can be recognized only by 
the reason. Therefore man alone knows beauty, and 
exhibits his reason by delighting in it. It is, in short, 
the privilege of unfortunate lovers to be pitied, because 
they have come to grief through the exercise of their 
highest faculty. To make the contention specific, ** the 
love of the twins of the tragedy is not disonesto^^^ because 
the ** love of country and of glory is not so peculiar to 

BlncroOttttion Hii 

a human being as that love which is desire of beauty. 
Therefore, sin caused by this latter is more human, be- 
cause this species is found only in man ; but the other 
two are found* also in other animals." 

I have dwelt at considerable length upon the tragedy 
and the criticism of the ** Plato " of the Paduan acad- 
emy because in this forgotten Italian material are to be 
found the foil Uhwtration and the explicit theory of 
every singular characteristic in Ford's most individual 
playT] Here is the Platonic theology of love — its logic, 
its insistence upon the inviolability of the soul, its mystical 
reverence of passion, and its earnest fatalism — seriously 
applied to the extenuation of hideous crime and to the 
glorification of the criminals. If Canace e Macareo was 
not the direct source of ' Tis Pity^ it was at any rate a 
noteworthy tributary to that stream of bewildering and 
dangerous neo-pagan ideas which flowed into England 
from Italy, and made the production of ' Tis Pity pos- 
sible. The decadent and vicious idealism of both of 
these tragedies — this is perhaps sufficient justification 
for considering them attentively — is the fruit of the 
general moral and intellectual emancipation of the Re- 

From this survey of Ford's work it should appear 
plainly enough that he was not one of the myriad- 
minded and puissant men of the age, to whom nothing 
human was alien. It seems as if temperament, culture, 
and the time-spirit had conspired to nnake him a writer 
of originality and power only within extremely narrow 
limits. I have said that his reputation rests upon his 
three tragedies, and one of them. Lovers Sacrifice, 

liv llntrofiaction 

is a failure. It would scarcely be going too far to say 
that no contributive tendency and no excellence of ar- 
tistic achievement peculiarly his would be ignored if he 
were remembered only by the two plays included in 
this volume. Here are his best plots; all bat one — 
Bianca — of his memorable characters; his sweetest 
poetry; his fundamental and creative ideas. His amor- 
ous and melan cholic temperament tended to restrict his 
outlook ^ even trom youth, to the field of love and 
sexual passion. His reading in the romantic literature 
of the last quarter of the sixteenth century confirmed 
his natural bent, and added to his emotions whatever in- 
tellectual content was possessed by the Platonic theology 
of love. If his legal training affected his literary pro- 
cessesy I suspect we may discover traces of its influence 
in the proclivity of his characters for deciding cases of 
conscience on grounds of equity and natural reason. As 
a lawyer he may easily have learned a certain disrespect 
for the law in so far as it is a body of rules based upon 
social expediency rather than upon absolute justice. 
Furthermore^ he found a curious corroboration of the 
scholastic fatalism and rationalism of his youth in the 
medical rationalism of Burton. All these forces, bearing 
upon a mind as earnest and as humorless as Shelley' s, 
produced in Ford a disdain for vulgar orthodoxy, 
and made him a romantic rationalist in morals. After 
a generation of great dramatists had spoken, he had 
still something to say. He had to say that the essence ^ 
of tragedy is the defeat ot' the ideal by the real world . 
V In order tofxplaiiLiheidea dramaticallyhe had to in- 

vent the problem play . If he could have support 

■.y/ '■ 

jnntroOttction iv 

theory of tragedy by a scries of such fine and effective 
illustrations as the Broken Heart, he would have made 
himself a large and secure place in literature. Unfortu- 
nately, however, his experience, judgment, and com- 
mon sense were unequal to the task. His talent was 
limited by a morbid temperament. His intellectual 
grasp was weak when he wrote Love's Sacrifice, 
When he wrote ' Tis Pity, though every artistic facult J 
was alert, he was deserted by common-sense. ' 


The text bere pnntsd fblhwro the fat and only gwmtmiHi 
tniy edition, the quarto of 1633* ^7'^ dsumeieil tfvo ortinee 
minntr di&rencBB in the copicB lie rwmineri ^ but tfaeie aesBM to 
liavc been no Kcond quaxto edition of any pky produced fay Fonl 
independent^. Tlie quarto lias been c ompa re d with Weber*B edi- 
tion m the Dramatic Jf^orks tf yokn Ford, 181 1, and with the 
Gifibrd-Dyce edition m the Works of John Ford, 1B95. Weber's 
notoriously defective edition iMnss a livefy provocaove to accuxacy in 
Giffbrd^B edition of 1 827. But though Giffind decisively supei se Uc d 
Wdier, his own oiitorial work was fay no means fiam\gm, and he 
permitted himself oiitorial licenses no longer app r o ve d . For the 
revised edition of 1869 Dyce thorough^ overhauled Giffiord^s text, 
compering it with variots copies of the quartos, and restoring original 
readings or noting them among the variants. The 1895 edition is 
a le-issue '< with further additions *^ \by A. H. Bulkn]. There 
grin remain some needless corrections, numerous expannons of col- 
loquial contractions, and changes in the stage directions. In the 
present editions variants of Giffind-Dyce (G-D) axe xocoxded when 
tiiey are of interest or importance to the text. 

The spelling of tfate quarto has faeen restored, except diat the old 
forms of J, I, and *v have not faeen retained, and obvious misprints 
— such as an n f or a u — have faeen silemiy corrected. Ca|maliza-> 
tion and punctuation have faeen modernized, and commas have been 
substituted for the characteristic parentheses enclosing the nomina- 
tive of direct address. Changes or additions in the text are indicated 
by InacketB or foot-notes or both. The name of each character is 
printed in full at hk first appearance in each scene, and then is 
uniformly aUnreviated without reference to sporadic variations. The 
divttion and placing of t hr scenes is based on that of the Giffiml- 
Dyce edition. 


Pitty SKee s a W hof c 

Adedby die 2?""" ^^aiefties Ser- 

vaios, at 7 he 'Phtmix m 


Printed by ^!^Kioki Olfes forlRicAanJ 
Colhttt, and are CO be {old at his ihop 
in Pauh Chutch-yatd, atthe {igne 
oftlKthTeeXings. 1^33. 


No perfecdy certain source of this play has been discovered. 
Events in some respects similar to those of the tragedy are said to 
have taken phce in Normandy in 1603. An accoimt of them is 
given by the chronicler Pierre Matthieu in his Histoire de France 
et des Chous Memorables . . . , published in Paris, 1606. The 
story is retold by Francois de Rosset in Les Histoires Tragiques de 
Nostre Temps, It is the fifth tale in the second edition, 161 5 ; the 
seventh in the edition of 161 9. Wolff declares outright that Ford 
took his plot from this source. (See yohn Forde ein NacAaAmer 
Shakespeare* Sf page 8). But Koeppel approves Dyce^s observation 
that '< though Ford may probably have read it, there are no particu- 
lar resemblances between it and the play.** (See KoeppeFs Sluellen- 
StuiUen, page 1 80 ; also, Gifford-Dyce, Introduction, page zxx.) 

A great part of the Shakesperean influence which WoIfF at- 
tempted to trace in this play is purely imaginary. It is not difficult, 
however, to see a certain geneial likeness between Friar Bonaven- 
tura and Friar Laurence, and — to a less degree — between other 
characters of *Tis Pity and Romeo and Juliet, 

As a possible indirect source W. Bang and H. de Vocht sug- 
gest the ilepi ipunucwv iraOrjfidTtav of Parthenios of Nikaia. See 
Englische Studien, Band 36, pp. 392-93 (1906). 

There is a striking parallelism — hitherto, I thiink, unnoticed — 
between Annabella, Donado, Bergetto, and Poggio; and Isabella, 
Guardiano, the Ward, and Sordido in Middleton*s Women Beware 
Women, The resemblance is the more worth noting as the same 
element of unnatural passion enters into the intrigue of both plays. 

In my introduction I have discussed at some length an impres- 
nve analogue and posable source of *7» Pity in Speroiii*8 Canace 
e Macareo, 






My Lord, 

Where a truth of meritt hath a generall warrant, 
there love is but a debt, acknowledgement a justice. 
Greatnesse cannot often claime virtue by inheritance ; 
yet in this, yours appeares most eminent, for that you are 
not more rightly heyre to your fortunes, then glory shalbe 
to your memory. Sweetenesse of disposition ennobles a 
freedome of birth ; in both, your lawfull interest adds 
honour to your owne name, and mercy to my presump- 
tion. Your noble allowance of these first fruites of my 
leasure in the action, emboldens my confidence of your 
as noble construction in this presentment : especially since 
my service must ever owe particular duty to your fa- 
vours, by a particular ingagement. The gravity of the sub- 
ject may easily excuse the leightnesse of the title : other- 
wise, I had beene a severe judge against mine owne guilt. 
Princes have vouchsaTt grace to trifles, ofFred from a 
purity of devotion ; your Lordship may likewise please to 
admit into your good opinion, with these weake endeav- 
ours, the constancy of affection from the sincere lover of 
)rour deserts in honour. 


Til; ^reutt. 

, ■'■.rr. r.-'funa. 

• '- • f...7nAr pCDXttDMZa* 

«....■.- :. Fiflno. 
•■ • r.-r.-v rr Doiuuio. 

'•-'--- . ftUTtna* «: nnssxnsn. 

- v; . «.-...:. :. Snnnzr.. 

^.xx. «....« -ii..;. :.rr- rr Furio. 

• . . .» " • - -• - 


'CtjS ^ittv ^Wsi a IS^oott 


Friar Bonaventura's cell,^ 

Enter Fryar and Giovanni, 
Fryar. Dispute no more in this ; for know, 

young man. 
These are no schoole-points ; nice philosophy 
May tolerate unlikely arguments, 
But heaven admits no jest ; wits that presum'd 
On wit too much, — by striving how to prove 
There was no God, — with foolish grounds of 

Discovered first the neerest way to hell. 
And fild the world with develish atheisme : 
Such questions, youth, are fond ; for better 'tis 
To blesse the sunne then reason why it shines ; lo 
Yet hee thou talk'st of is above the sun. 
No more; I may not heare it. 

Giovanni, Gentle father. 

To you I have unclasp't my btirthened soule, 
Empty'd the store-house of my thoughts and 


6 ^ig ]BitC lAcrL 

Made my selfe poore of secrets ; have not left i^ 
Another word untold, which hath not spoke 
All what I ever durst or thinke or know ; 
And yet is here the comfort I shall have. 
Must I not doe what all men else may, — love? 

Fry. Yes, you may love, faire sonne. 

Gio. Must I not praise » 

That beauty which, if fram'd a new, the gods 
Would make a god of, if they had it there. 
And kneele to it, as I doe kneele to them ? 

Fry, Why, foolish madman, — 

Gio. Shall a peevish sound, 

A customary forme, from man to man, ij 

Of brother and of sister, be a barre 
Twixt my perpetuall happinesse and mee ? 
Say that we had one father, say one wombe — 
Curse to my joyes — gave both us life and birth; 
Are wee not therefore each to other bound f 

So much the more by nature, by the links 
Of blood, of reason, — nay, if you will hav't,^- 
Even of religion, to be ever one. 
One soule, one flesh, one love, one heart, one 

Fry, Have done, unhappy youth, for thou art 
lost. ] 

Gio, Shall, then, for that I am her brother 
My joyes be ever banisht from her bed ? 

)CBNE I.] »tKfe pit? 7 

No, father ; in your eyes I sec the change 

Of pitty and compassion ; from your age, 

\s from a sacred oracle, distills 40 

The life of counsell : tell mee, holy man. 

What cure shall give me ease in these extreames. 

Fry. Repentance, sonne, and sorrow for this 
sinne : 
For thou hast mov'd a Majesty above 
With thy un-raunged almost blasphemy. 45 

Gio. O, doe not speake of that, deare con- 
\ fessor ! 

Fry. Art thou, my sonne, that miracle of wit 
Who once, within these three moneths, wert 

\ wonder of thine age throughout Bononia ? 
Ff ow did the University applaud 50 

rhy goverment, behaviour, learning, speech, 
3weetnesse, and all that could make up a man t 
[ was proud of my tutellage, and chose 
R.ather to leave my bookes then part with thee; 
[ did so : but the fruites of all my hopes 55 

\re lost in thee, as thou art in thy selfe. 
3, Giovanni ! hast thou left the schooles 
3f knowledge to converse with lust and death? 
!^or death waites on thy lust. Looke through 

the world, 
\nd thou shalt see a thousand faces shine 60 

^ore glorious then this idoll thou ador'st : 

8 'tEfig^iti (AaL 

Leave her, and take tny choyce, ^tis much lessc 

sinne ; 
Though in such games as those, they lose that 

Gio. It were more ease to stop the ocean 
From floates and ebbs then to disswade my 

Fry. Then I have done, and in thy wilful! 

Already see thy ruine ; heaven is just. 
Yet heare my counsell. 

Gio. As a voyce of life. 

Fry. Hye to thy fathers house, there locke 

thee fast 
Alone virithin thy chamber, then fall downe 
On both thy knees, and grovel! on the ground : 
Cry to thy heart, wash every word thou utter'st 
In teares, — and if't bee possible, — of blood: 
Begge heaven to cleanse the leprosie of lust 
That rots thy soule, acknowledge what thou art, 
A wretch, a worme, a nothing : weepe, sigh, pray 
Three times a day and three times every night ; 
For seven dayes space doe this ; then if thou 

No change in thy desires, returne to me : 
rie thinke on remedy. Pray for thy selfe 
At home, whil'st I pray for thee here. Away ! 
My blessing with thee. Wee have neede to pray ! 

csNc iL] 'tB^to |9it^ 9 

Gio. All this rie doe, to free mee from the rod 
)f vengeance ; else I'lesweare my fate's my god. 
V Exeunt. 

The street before FlorWs house.^ 

Enter Grimaldi and Vasques ready to fight. 

Vasques. Come, sir, stand to your tackling ; if 
ou prove craven, Tie make you run quickly. 

Grimaldi. Thou art no equall match for mee. 

Fas. Indeed, I never went to the warres to 
iring home newes ; nor cannot play the moun- 5 
ibanke for a meales meate, and svi^eare I got my 
vounds in the field. See you these gray haires ? 
rhey'le not flinch for a bloody nose. Wilt thou 
o this geere ? 

Gri. Why, slave, think'st thou Tie ballance 10 
ny reputation with a cast-suite f Call thy mais- 
er ; he shall know that I dare — 

Vas, Scold like a cot-queane, — that's your 
)rofession. Thou poore shaddow of a souldier, 
[ will make thee know my maister keepes scr- 15 
.rants thy betters in quality and performance. 
Z)om'st thou to fight or prate ? 

Gri. Neither, with thee; I am a Romane 
ind a gentleman, one that have got mine honour 

th expence of blood. ao 

Vas. You are a lying coward and a foole! 

18-20 Neither . . . hlood. Q prints at yerse. 

10 'tE^bt ]Bt(t (AaL 

Fight, or, by these hilts, I'le kill thee, — bnve 

my lord ! — you'le fight. 

Gri. Provoake me not, for if thou dost — 
Fas. Have at you! 

They fight : Grtmal, hatb the worst. 

Enter FloriOy Donado, Soranzo, 
Florio. What meaned these sudden broyles so 
neare my dores ? 15 

Have you not other places but my house 
To vent the spleene of your disordered bloods ? 
Must I be haunted still with such unrest 
As not to eate or sleepe in peace at home ? 
Is this your love, Grimaldi ? Fie, 't is naught. j« 
Donado. And, Vasques, I may tell thee, 'ti$ 
not well 
To broach these quarrels; you arc ever for- 
In seconding contentions. 

Enter above Annabella and Putanu. 
Flo. What's the ground? 

Soranzo, That, with your patience, signiors, 
ric resolve : 
This gentleman, whom fame reports a soul- 

dier, — jj' 

For else I know not, — rivals mee in love 
To Signior Florio's daughter; to whose 
He still preferrs his suite to my disgrace, 

25 mtaned, G-D, mean. 

scxNE n.] 'tB^t0 l^iti; 1 1 

Thinking the way to recommend himselfe 

Is to disparage me in his report : 40 

But know, Grimaldi, though, may be, thou art 

My equall in thy blood, yet this bewrayes 

A lownesse in thy minde; which, wer't thou 

Thou would'st as much disdaine as I doe thee 
For this unworthinesse ; and on this ground 45 
I wiird my servant to correct his tongue. 
Holding a man so base no match for me. 

Fas. And had [not] your sudd [en] comming 
prevented us, I had let my gentleman blood un- 
der the gilles ; I should have worm'd you, sir, for 50 
running madde. 

Gri. He be reveng'd, Soranzo. 

Fas, On a dish of warme-broth to stay your 
stomack — doe, honest innocence, doe! Spone- 
meat is a wholesomer dyet then a Spannish blade. 55 

Gri. Remember this ! 

Sor. I feare thee not, Grimaldi. 

Ex, GrL 

Flo. My Lord Soranzo, this is strange to me. 
Why you should storme, having my word en- 
gaged ; 
Owing her heart, what needc you doubt her 

eare ? 
Loosers may talke by law of any game. 60 

46 kit. Qy this. 48 sudden. Q, sudda ne. 

12 't!Pt0 ^it2 ^^ 

Fas. Yet thevillaine of words, Signior Florio, 
may be such as would make any unspleen'd dove 
chollerick; blame not my lord in this. 

Flo. Be you more silent ; 
I would not for my wealth, my daughters love 6j 
Should cause the spilling of one drop of blood. 
Vasques, put up : let's end this fray in wine. 


Putana. How like you this, child? Here's 
threatning, challenging, quarrelling, and fighting 
on every side, and all is for your sake ; you had 71 
neede looke to your selfe, chardge ; you'le be 
stolne away sleeping else shortly. 

Annahella. But, tutresse, such a life gives no 
To me; my thoughts are fixt on other ends. 
Would you would leave me! 71 

Put. Leave you ? No marvaile else ; leave me 
no leaving, chardge. This is love outright. In- 
deede, I blame you not ; you have choyce fit for 
the best lady in Italy. 

Anna. Pray doe not talke so much. I 

Put. Take the worst with the best, there's Gri- 
maldi the souldier, a very well-timbred fellow: 
they say he is a Roman, nephew to the Duke 
Mount Ferratto ; they say he did good service in 
the warrs against the Millanoys; but, faith, 
chardge, I doe not like him, and be for nothi 

61-3 Q prints at Tcrse. 

scNxn.] 'tE^ie^it^ 13 

but for being a souldier: one amongst twenty 
of your skirmishing captaines but have some 
pryvie mayme or other that marres their stand- 
ing upright. I like him the worse, hee crinckles 90 
so much in the hams; though hee might serve 
if their were no more men, — yet hee's not the 
man I would choose. 

yfnna. Fye, how thou prat'st ! 
Put. As I am a very woman, I like Signiour 95 
Soranzo well : hee is wise, and what is more, 
rich; and what is more then that, kind; and 
what is more then all this, a noble-man ; such a 
one, were I the faire Annabella my selfe, I 
would wish and pray for. Then hee is bounti-ioo 
! full ; besides, hee is handsome, and, by my troth, 
^ I thinke, wholsome — and that's newes in a 
j gallant of three and twenty ; liberall, that I know ; 
■ loving, that you know ; and a man sure, else hee 

could never ha' purchast such a good name with 105 
i Hippolita, the lustie widdow, in her husbands 
life time. And 'twere but for that report, sweet 
heart, would 'a were thine ! Commend a man 
for his qualities, but take a husband as he is a 
plaine-suificient, naked man: such a one is for no 
your bed, and such a one is Signior Soranzo, my 
life for't. 

Jnna, Sure the woman tooke her mornings 
draught to soone. 

14 'tC^ief l^iti? (ActL 

Enter Bergetto and Poggio, 

Put. But looke, sweet heart, looke what thingens 
comes now ! Here's another of your cyphers to 
fill up the number: Oh, brave old ape in a 
silken coate! Observe. 

Ber, Dids't thou thinke, Poggio, that I would 
spoyle my new cloathes, and leave my dinner toiio 

Pog, No, sir, I did not take you for so arrant 
a babie. 

Ber. I am wyser then so : for I hope, Poggio, 
thou never heard' st of an elder brother that was 115 | 
a coxcomb; dids't, Poggio? 

Pog. Never, indeede, sir, as long as they had 
either land or mony left them to inherit. ' 

Ber. Is it possible, Poggio ? Oh, monstnious! 
Why, He undertake with a handfuU of silver to 130 
buy a headfull of wit at any tyme : but, sirrah, 
I have another purchase in hand. I shall have 
the wench, myne unckle sayes. I will but wash 
my face, and shift socks, and then have at her, 
yfaith . . . Marke my pace, Poggio ! 135 

Pog. Sir, I have seene an asse and a mule trot 
the Spannish pavin with a better grace, I know 
not how often. Exemtt. * 

Anna. This ideot haunts me too. 

Put. I, I, he needes no discription. The rich 140 
magnifico that is below with your father, chardge, 

scENi n.] 'tZI^i0 l^ic^ 15 

Signior Donado his unckle, for that he meanes 
to make this, his cozen, a golden calfe, thinkes 
that you wil be a right Isralite, and fall downe 
to him presently : but I hope I have tuterd you 145 
better. They say a fooles bable is a ladies play- 
fellow; yet you, having wealth enough, you 
neede not cast upon the dearth of flesh at any 
rate. Hang him, innocent ! 

Enter Giovanni. 
Anna, But see, Putana, see! What blessed 
i shape 150 

i Of some caelestiall creature now appeares ! 
\ What man is hee that with such sad aspect 
Walkes carelessc of him selfe ? 
Put. Where ? 

Anna. Looke below. 

Put, Oh, 'tis your brother, sweet. 
Anna. Ha ! 

Put. 'Tis your brother. 

Anna. Sure 'tis not hee ; this is some woeful! 
thinge 155 

Wrapt up in griefe, some shaddow of a man. 
Alas, hee beats his brest, and wipes his eyes, 
Drown'd all in teares : me thinkes I heare him sigh. 
Lets downe, Ptitana, and pertake the cause. 
I know my brother in the love he beares me '6® 
Will not denye me partage in his sadnesse — 
My soule is full of heavinesse and fearc. 

Exit \above with Putand\ • 

i6 't!Pi0)^it? lAcii. 


A hall in FUrio's bouseJ] 

Giovanni. Lost! I am lost! my fates have 
doom'd my death: 
The more I strive, I love; the more I love. 
The lesse I hope : I see my mine certaine. 
What judgement or endevors could apply 
To my incurable and restlesse wounds, 5 

I throughly have examin'd, but in vaine. 

that it were not in religion sinne 
To make our love a god, and worship it ! 

have even wearied heaven with prayers, dryed 
The spring of my continuall teares, even sterv'd » 
My veines with dayly fasts : what wit or art 
Could counsaile, I have practiz'd; but, alas, 

1 find all these but dreames and old mens 

To fright unsteedy youth; I'me still the same: 
Or I must speake or burst ; tis not, I know, 15 
My lust, but 'tis my fate that leads me on. 
Keepe feare and low faint hearted shame with 

slaves ! 
rie tell her that I love her, though my heart 
Were rated at the price of that attempt. 
Oh me! she comes. 

scxNs n.] ^tE^iS l^itg 1 7 

Enter Anna, and Putana. 

Annahella. Brother ! 

Glo. \aside\. If such a thing lo 

As courage dwell in men, yee heavenly powers. 
Now double all that virtue in my tongue! 

Anna. Why, brother. 
Will you not speake to me? 

Gio. Yes: how d'ee, sister? 

Anna. Howsoever I am, me thinks you are 
not well. 25 

Putana. Ble^se us ! why are you so sad, sir ? 

Gio. Let me intreat you, leave us awhile, 

Sister, I would be pryvate with you. 

Anna. With-drawe, Putana. 

(Put. I will. — \Aside^ If this were any 30 
other company for her, I should thinke my ab- 
sence an office of some credit ; but I will leave 
them together. Exit Putana. 

Gio. Come, sister, lend your hand : let's walke 
I hope you neede not blush to walke with mee; 35 
Here's none but you and I. 
Anna. How's this ? 

Gio. Faith, 

I meane no harme. 

Anna. Harme ? 

Gio. No, good faith. 

How is't with 'ee ? 

1 8 't!Pi0)^lt]? (Acii 

Anna. I trust hee be not franticke — 

I am very well, brother. 

Gio. Trust me, but I am sicke : I feare so 
sick ^ 

'Twill cost my life. 

Anna, Mercy forbid it ! *tis not so, I hope. 

Gio. I thinke you love me, sister. 

Anna. , Yes, you know 

I doe. 

Gio, I know't, indeed — y*are very faire. 

Anna. Nay, then, I see you have a merry 
sicknesse. 45 

Gio. That's as it proves : the poets faigne, I 
That Juno for her forehead did exceeds 
All other goddesses ; but I durst sweare 
Your forehead exceeds hers, as hers did theirs. 

Anna, Troth, this is pretty ! 

Gio, Such a paire of starres 50 

As are thine eyes would, like Promethean fire, | 
If gently glaun'st, give life to senselesse stones. 

Anna, Fie upon 'ee ! 

Gio. The lilly and the rose, most sweetly 
Upon your dimpled cheekes doe strive for 
change. 55 

44 / doe. Q prints with line above. 

46 tAt. Q, they, 49 tAeirs, G, thein. D, thdr. 

scsNs m.] 'tZI^i0 l^itg 19 

Such lippes would tempt a saint ; such hands as 

Would make an anchoret lascivious. 

Anna, D'ec mock mee or flatter mee ? 

Gio. If you would see a beauty more exact 
Then art can counterfit or nature frame, 60 

Looke in your glasse, and there behold your 

Anna. O, you are a trime youth. 

Gio. Here ! Offers his dagger to her. 

Anna, What to doe ? 

Gio. And here's my breast ; strike home ! 
Rip up my bosome ; there thou shalt behold 
A heart in which is writ the truth I speake. 65 
Why stand 'ee? 

Anna. Are you earnest ? 

Gio, Yes, most earnest. 

You cannot love? 

Anna. Whom ? 

Gio. Me I My tortur'd soule 

Hath felt aflliction in the heate of death — 
O Annabella, I am quite undone ! 
The love of thee, my sister, and the view 70 

Of thy immortall beauty hath untun'd 
All harmony both of my rest and life. 
Why d'ee not strike ? 

63 ttrtkt. Q, ttrick. 

20 'tIPte ^iti [AcrL 

Anna. Forbid it, my just feares ! 

"If this be true, 'twere fitter I were dead. 

Gio. True, Annabella^ 'tis no time to jest, n 
I have too long supprest the hidden flames 
That almost have consum'd me : I have spent 
Many a silent night in sighes and groanes. 
Ran over all my thoughts, despis'd my fate, 
Reason'd against the reasons of my love, to 

Done all that smooth'd-cheeke vertue could 

advise ; 
But found all bootelesse : 'tis my destiny 
That you must eyther love, or I must dye. 

Anna, Comes this in sadnesse from you ? 

Gio, Let some mischiefe 

Befall me soone, if I dissemble ought. ij 

Anna. You are my brother, Giovanni. 

Gio. You, 

My sister Annabella; I know this. 
And could afford you instance why to love 
So much the more for this; to which intent 
Wise nature first in your creation ment f 

To make you mine ; else't had beene sinne and 

foule I 

To share one beauty to a double soule. 
Neerenesse in birth or blood doth but perswade 
A neerer neerenesse in afFection, 
I have askt counsell of the holy church, j 

8 1 imooth'd-chetke. Altered by G to smooth-cheek^^. 
93 or, G-D, and. 

scn«in.i ! :' ^ 'tEPi0|9its 21 

\ Who tells mee I may love you ; and *tis just 
^That, since I may, I should; and will, yes, 
Must I now live or dye ? 
/I jfnna. Live; thou hast wonne 

The field, and never fought ; what thou hast 

My captive heart had long agoe resolv'd. 100 

' I blush to tell thee, — but Tie tell thee now, — 
For every sigh that thou hast spent for me 
I have sigh'd ten ; for every teare shed twenty : 
And not so much for that I lov'd, as that 
I durst not say I lov'd, nor scarcely thinke it. 105 
Gio, Let not this musicke be a dreame, yee 
For pittie's-sake, I begge 'ee. ^/ 

Anna. On my knees,' ^hee kneeles. 

Brother, even by our mothers dust, I charge 

Doe not betray mee to your mirth or hate : 
Love mee or kill me, brocher. ^' 

Gio, On my knees, He kneeles, no 

Sister, even by my mothers dust, I charge you. 
Doe not betray mee to your mirth or hate ; 
Love mee or kill mee, sister. 

Anna, You meane good sooth, then ^ 
Gio, In good troth, I doe ; 

And so doe you, I hope: say, I'm in earnest. 115 

22 'tIPte ^it2 (AciL 

jfnna. I'le swear't, and L 
Gio, And I; and by this kisse, — 

Kisses ber. 
Once more! yet once more ! now let's rise, — 

by this, 
I would not change this minute for Elyzium. 
What must we now doe? 

Jnna. What you will. 

Gio. Come, then; 

After so many teares as wee have wept, ik 

Let's learne to court in smiles, to kisse and 
sleepe. Exeunt. 

[SCENA QUARTA. A street. 1 

Enter Fiorio and Donado. 

Florio. Signior Donado, you have sayd 
enough — 
I understand you ; but would have you know 
I will not force my daughter 'gainst her wiU. 
You see I have but two, a Sonne and her j 
And hee is so devoted to his booke, $ 

As I must tell you true, I doubt his health : 
Should he miscarry, all my hopes rely 
Upon my girle. As for worldly fortune, 
I am, I thanke my starres, blest with enough. 
My care is how to match her to her liking : is 

Xl6 rit swear* t, and L G-D, Til swear it^ I. 

f I would not have her marry wealth, but love ; 
/ And if she like your nephew, let him have her 
I Here's all that I can say. 

Donado. Sir, you say well, 

Like a true father; and, for my part, I, 
If the young folkes can like, — twixt you and 

me, — 15 

Will promise to assure my nephew presently 
Three thousand florrens yeerely during life. 
And after I am dead my whole estate. 

Flo. 'Tis a faire proffer, sir, meane time your 
Shall have free passage to commence his suite: ^ 
If hee can thrive, hee shall have my consent. 
So for this time Tie leave you, signior. Exit, 
Do. Well, 

Here's hope yet, if my nephew would have 

But hee is such another dunce, I feare 
Hee'le never winne the wench. When I was 

young, aj 

I could have done't, yfaith ; and so shall hee. 
If hee will learne of mee; and, in good time, 
Hee comes himselfe. 

Enter Bergetto and Poggio, 
How now, Bergetto, whether away so fast ? 

Bergetto. Oh, unUe, I have heard the strangest 30 

29 How now . . . faut Q gives this to Poggio. 

24 'tIPte ^iti I 

newes that ever came out of the myntl Hs 
not, Poggio ? 

Poggio. Yes, indeede, sir. 

Do. What newes, Bergetto ? 

Ber, Why, looke yee, unkle, my barber 
me just now that there is a fellow coi 
towne who undertakes to make a mill goe 
out the mortall helpe of any water or w 
onely with sand-bags : and this fellow ha 
strange horse, a most excellent beast, I'le ; 
you, uncle, my barber sayes, whose head t< 
wonder of all Christian people, stands jus 
hind where his tayle is — is 't not true, Poj 

Pog. So the barber swore, forsooth. 

Do, And you are running [t] hither? 

Ber, I, forsooth, unkle. 

Do. Wilt thou be a foole stil? Come 
you shall not goe. You have more mind 
puppet-play then on the businesse I told 
Why, thou great baby, wu't never have 
Wu't make thy selfe a May-game to al 

Pog. Answere for your selfe, maister. 

Ber. Why, unkle, shu'd I sit at home 
and not goe abroad to see fashions like • 
gallants ? 

Do. To see hobby-horses ! What wise I 

45 M *upp^^ ^ 6-D. 

scsNx IV.] 'tEPi0 i^tt^ 25 

I pray, had you with Annabella, when you were 
at Signior Florio's house ? 

Ber, Oh, the wench ! Uds sa' me, unkle, I 60 
tickled her with a rare speech, that I made her 
almost burst her belly with laughing. 

Do. Nay, I thinke so; and what speech 
was't ? 

Ber, What did I say, Poggio? 65 

Pog, Forsooth, my maister said, that hee loved 
her almost as well as hee loved parmasent, and 
swore — rie be sworne for him — that shee 
wanted but such a nose as his was, to be as 
pretty a young woeman as any was in Parma. 70 

Do, Oh, grose! 

Ber, Nay, unkle, — then shee ask't mee 
whether my father had any more children then 
my selfe ; and I sayd " No, 'twere better hee 
should have had his braynes knockt out first." 75 

Do, This is intolerable. 

Ber, Then sayd shee, " Will Signior Donado, 
your unkle, leave you all his wealth ? " 

Do, Ha ! that was good — did she harpe upon 
that string? go 

Ber, Did she harpe upon that string ? I, that 
she did. I answered, " Leave me all his wealth? 
Why, woeman, hee hath no other wit; if hee 
had, he should heare on't to his everlasting glory 
and confusion. I know," quoth I, '' I am his 85 

26 '(D^t0 ^it2 v^^ 

white boy, and will not be guld." And with that 
she fell into a great smile, and went away. Nay, 
I did fit her ! 

Do. Ah, sirrah, then I see there is no changing 
of nature. Well, Bergetto, I feare thou wilt be 9« 
a very asse still. 

Ber, I should be sorry for that, unkle. 

Do. Come, come you home with me : since 
you are no better a speaker. Tie have you write 
to her after some courtly manner, and inclose 95 
some rich Jewell in the letter. 

Ber. I, marry, that will be excellent. 

Do. Peace, innocent ! 
Once in my time Tie set my wits to schoole; 
If all faile, 'tis but the fortune of a foole. lo 

Ber. Poggio, 'twill doe, Poggio. Bxiwrt, I 



\^jfn apartment in Flori6*s houseJ^ 

Enter Giovanni and Annabella as from their chamber, 

Giovanni. Come, Annabella, — no more sis- 
ter now. 
But love, a name more gracious, — doe not 

Beauties sweete wonder, but be proud to know 
That yeelding thou hast conquer'd, and inflam'd 
A heart whose tribute is thy brothers life. 5 

Annabella. And mine is his! Oh, how these 
stolne contents 
Would print a modest crymson on my cheekes. 
Had any but my hearts delight prevail'd ! 

Gio. I marvaile why the chaster of your sex 
Should thinke this pretty toye call'd maiden-head i^ 
So strange a losse, when, being lost, 'tis nothing. 
And you are still the same. 

Anna. 'Tis well for you ; 

Now you can talke. 

Gio. Musicke aswell consists 

In th' eare as in the playing. 

Anna. Oh, y'are wanton ! 

Tell on't, y'are best ; doc. 

14 fori, G-D, youVe. 

28 'dPitf pics (A^'^ 

Gio. Thou wilt chide me, then. 15 

Kisse me — so! Thus hung Jove on Laeda's 

necke, ^ 

And suck't divine ambrosia from her lips. \ 

I envy not the mightiest man alive ; j 

But hold my selfe, in being king of thee, - 

More great than were I king of all the world, so 
But I shall lose you, sweet-heart. 

jfnna. But you shall not ! 

Gio. You must be married, mistres. 

jfnna. Yes, to whom? 

Gio. Some one must have you. 

jfnna. You must. 

Gio. Nay, some other. 

jfnna. Now, prithee, do not speake so; with- 
out jesting 
You*le make me weepe in earnest. 

Gio. What, you will not ! t$ 

But tell me, sweete, cans't thou be dar'd to 

That thou wilt live to mee, and to no other? 

jtnna. By both our loves I dare; for didst 
thou know. 
My Giovanni, how all suiters seeme 
To my eyes hatefull, thou wouldst trust mee then, f 

21 Tou must be married^ mistres, Q printi on line abofc 

ft2-3 Tes . . . ha'ucyou. Q prints on one line. 

23 Yw must. Gi$. Nay, some other. Q prints on one Boi; 


Gio. Enough, I take thy word. Sweet, we 
must part: 
Remember what thou vow*stj keepe well my 
Anna. Will you begon ? 
Gio, I must. 

Anna. When to returne ? 

Gio. Soone. 

Anna, Looke you doe. 

Gio. Farewell. Exit. 

Anna. Goe where thou wilt, in mind Tie keepe 
thee here, 35 

And where thou art, I know I shall be there. 
Guardian ! 

Enter Putana, 

Putana. Child, how is't, child ? Well,thanke 

heaven, ha ! 
Anna. O guardian, what a paradise of joy 
Have I past over ! 40 

Put. Nay, what a paradise of joy have you 
past under! Why now I commend thee, 
chardge. Feare nothing, sweete-heart, what 
. though hee be your brother: your brother's a 
I man, I hope, and I say still, if a young wench 45 
; feele the fitt upon her, let her take any body — 
! father or brother, all is one. 

33-4 will you btgont Gio. I must, makes one line ofQi 
FF hen to returne t Gio, Soone, another) md Looke you doe, Gto. 
Farewell, a third. 

30 '(B^topitC [Acra 

Jnna. I would not have it knowne for all the 

Put. Nor I, indeed, for the speech of the peo> 
pie ; else 'twere nothing. 

Florio {within). Daughter Annabella! 
Anna. O mee! my father. — Here, sir! — 

Reach my worke. 
Flo. {within). What are you doeing ? 
Jnna. So, let him come now. 

Enter Florio, Ricbardetto like a Doctor of Pbisicke, 

and Philotis toitb a lute in ber band. 

Flo, So hard at worke ! that's well ; you lose 
no time 
Looke, I have brought you company ; here's one 5 
A learned doctor, lately come from Padua, 
Much skild in physlcke ; and, for that I see 
You have of late beene sickly, I entreated 
This reverent man to visit you some time* 

Jnna. Y'are very welcome, sir. 

Ricbardetto. I thanke you, mistresse. 6 

Loud fame in large report hath spoke your praise 
Aswell for vertue as perfection : 
For which I have beene bold to bring with mee 
A kins-woeman of mine, a maide, for song 
And musicke one perhaps will give content* i 
Please you to know her. 

Anna. They are parts I loTe. 

And shee for them most welcome. 

scsNiLi 'Sitfpiti? 31 

Philotis, Thanke you, lady. 

Flo. Sir, now you know my house, pray make 
not strange ; 
And if you finde my daughter neede your art, 
rie be your pay-master. 

Rich. Sir, what I am 70 

Shee shall command. 

Flo. You shall bind me to you. 

Daughter, I must have conference with you 
About some matters that concernes us both. 
Good Maister Doctor, please you but walke in, 
Wee'le crave a little of your cozens cunning : 75 
I thinke my girle hath not quite forgot 
To touch an instrument \ she could have don't : 
Wee'le heare them both. 

Rich. rie waite upon you, sir. Exeunt. 


Enter Soranzo in bis study reading a booke. 
^Soran%oi\ Loves measure is extreame^ the com- 
fort paine^ 
The life unrest^ and the reward disdaine. 
What's here f lookt o're again. 'Tis so ; so writes 
This smooth licentious poet in his rymes. 
But, Sanazar, thou lyest ; for had thy bosome ^ 
Felt such oppression as is laid on mine, 

70-1 Sir . , , command, Q prints as one line. 

32 '(B^topits IA«IL 

Thou wouldst have kist the rod that made the 

To worke, then, happy Muse, and contradict 
What Sanazer hath in his envy writ. 

LoFues measure is the meane^ sweet bis anmyeSj lo 
His pleasures life^ and his reward alljeyes. 

Had Annabella liv'd when Sanazar 
Did in his briefe Encomium celebrate 
Venice, that queene of citties, he had left 
That verse which gaind him such a summe of 

gold, 15 

And for one onely looke from Annabell 
Had writ of her and her diviner cheekes. 
O, how my thoughts are — 

Vasques (within). Pray, forbeare ; in rules of 
civility, let me give notice on't : I shall be tax't » 
of my neglect of duty and service. 

Soran, What rude intrusion interrupts my 
peace ? 
Can I be no where private ? 

Fas. (within).Trothj you wrong your modesty. 

Soran. What's the matter, Vasques ? whois't? 
Enter Hippolita and Vasques. 

Hippolita. 'TisI:»J 

Doe you know mee now ? Looke, perjurd man, 
on her 

7 the smart. G-D, the [e] smart. 
13 Encomium. Q, Euconium. 

SON. n.j 'Wig pits 33 

Whom thou and thy distracted lust have wrongM. 
j Thy sensua}! rage of blood hath made my youth 
\ A scorne to men and angels ; and shall I 
,' Be now a foyle to thy un sated change ? 30 

Thou knowst, false wanton, when my modest 

Stood free fromstaineor scandall, all the charmes 
Of hell or sorcery could not prevaile 
Against the honour of my chaster bosome. 
Thyne eyes did pleade in teares, thy tongue in 

oathes, 35 

Such and so many that a heart of Steele 
Would have beene wrought to pitty, as was mine : 
And shall the conquest of my lawfull bed, 
My husbands death, urg'd on by his disgrace. 
My losse of woeman-hood, be ill rewarded • 40 
With hatred and contempt ? No ; know, Soranzo, 
I have a spirit doth as much distast 
The slavery of fearing thee, as thou 
Dost loath the memory of what hath past. 
Soran. Nay, deare Hippolita, — : 
Hip. Call me not deare, 45 

Nor thinke with supple words to smooth the 

Of my abuses. 'Tis not your new mistresse. 
Your goodly Madam Merchant, shall triumph 
On my dejection ; tell her thus from mee. 
My byrth was nobler and by much more free. 50 

34 '(B^topltS (AcrlL 

Soran. You are too violent. 

Hip. You are too double 

In your dissimulation. See'st thou this. 
This habit, these blacke mourning weedes of 

care ? 
'Tis thou art cause of this, and hast divorc't 
My husband from his life, and me from him, 55 
And made me widdow in my widdow-hood. 

Soran, Will you yet heare ? 

Hip, More of the perjuries ? 

Thy soule is drown'd too deepely in those 

sinnes \ 
Thou needs't not add to th' number. 

Soran. Then Tie leave you. 

You are past all rules of sence. 

Hip. And thou of grace. 60 

Vasques. Fy, mistresse, you are not neere the 
limits of reason : if my lord had a resolution as 
noble as vertue it selfe, you take the course to 
unedge it all. Sir, I beseech you, doe not per- 
plexe her ; griefes, alas, will have a vent : I dare 65 
undertake Madam Hippolita will now freely 
heare you. 

Soran. Talke to a woman frantick! — Are 
these the fruits of your love ? 

Hip. They are the fruites of thy untruth, fidse 
man! 70 

57 the. G-D, thy. 

Scene ILJ >®te pit|? 35 

I Didst thou not sweare, whil'st yet my husband 
That thou wouldst wish no happinesse on earth 
• More then to call me wife ? Didst thou not vow 
I When hee should dye to marry mee ? — for which 
The devill in my blood, and thy protests, 75 

Caus'd mee to counsaile him to undertake 
A voyage to Ligorne, for that we heard 
His brother there was dead and left a daughter 
Young and unfriended, who, with much adoe, 
I wish't him to bring hither. He did so, 80 

And went ; and, as thou know'st, dyed on the 

Unhappy man, to buy his death so deare, 
With my advice ! Yet thou, for whom I did it, 
Forget'st thy vowes, and leav'st me to my shame. 

Soran, Who could helpe this ? 

Hip, Who! perjur'd man, thou couldst, 85 

If thou hadst faith or love. 

Soran. You are deceived : 

The vowes I made, if you remember well. 
Were wicked and unlawfull 5 'twere more sinnc 
To keepe them then to breake them : as for mee 
I cannot maske my penitence. Thinke thou 9® 
How much thou hast digrest from honest shame 
In bringing of a gentleman to death 
Who was thy husband ; such a onie as hee, 
So noble in his quality, condition. 

36 '(S^topitS (Act a 

Learning, behaviour, entertainment, love, 95 

As Parma could not shew a braver man. 

Fas. You doe not well ; this was not your 

Soran. I care not ; let her know her mon- 
struous life. 
Ere rie be servile to so blacke a sinne, 
I'le be a curse. Woeman, come here no more; 100 
Learne to repent and dye \ for, by my honour, 
I hate thee and thy lust: you have beene too 
foule. [Exit.'] 

Vas. This part has beene scurvily playd. 

Hip, How foolishly this beast contemnes his 
And shuns the use of that which I more scome 105 
Then I once lov'd, his love ! But let him goe ; 
My vengeance shall give comfort to his woe. 

She offers to goe sntfMj, 

Fas. Mistresse, Mistresse, Madam Hippolita ! 
pray, a word or two. 

Hip. With mee, sir ? no 

Fas. With you, if you please. 

Hip. What is't ? 

Fas. I know you are infinitely mov'd now, 
and you thinke you have cause : some I confesse 
you have, but sure not so much as you i]?riagine.ii5 

Hip. Indeed! 

Fas. O you were miserably bitter, which you 

ScBttiii '©teptcp 37 

followed even to the last sillable. Faith, you 
were somewhat too shrewd ; by my life, you 
could not have tooke my lord in a worse time 120 
since I first knew him; to morrow you shall 
finde him a new man. 

Hip. Well, I shall waite his leasure. 

Fas» Fie, this is not a hearty patience ; it 
comes sowerly from you : troth, let me perswade 125 
you for once. 

Hip, [asidi^ . I have it, and it shall be so ; 
thanks, opportunity ! — Perswade me to what ? 

ras, Visitt him in some milder temper. O, if 
you could but master a little yourfemall spleen, 130 
how might you winne him ! 

Hip, Hee wil never love me. Vasques, thou 
hast bin a too trusty servant to such a master, 
and I beleeve thy reward in the end wil fal[l] 
out like mine. 135 

ras. So, perhaps, too. 

Hip. Resolve thy selfe it will. Had I one so 
true, so truely honest, so secret to my counsels, 
as thou hast beene to him and his, I should 
thinke it a slight acquittance, not onely to make 140 
him maister of all I have, but even of my selfe. 

Fas. O, you are a noble gentlewoman. 

Hip. Wu't thou feede alwayes upon hopes ? 
Well, I know thou art wise, and see'st the re- 
ward of an old servant daily, what it is. 145 

38 '(B^topitC lAcrlL 

Vas. Beggeiy and neglect. 

Hip. True; but, Vasques, wer't thou mine, 
and wouldst bee private to me and my designes, 
I here protest my selfe and aU what I can else 
call myne should be at thy dispose. 15 

Vas, [aside] . Worke you that way, old moule ? 
then I have the wind of you. — I were not 
worthy of it by any desert that could lye — 
within my compasse; if I could — 

Hip. What then ? 15 

Fas. I should then hope to live in these my 
old yeares with rest and security. 

Hip. Give me thy hand: now promise but 
thy silence. 
And helpe to bring to passe a plot I have. 
And here in sight of heaven, that being done, 161 
I make thee lord of mee and mine estate. 

ras. Come, you are merry; this is such a 
happinesse that I can neither thinke or beleeve. 

Hip. Promise thy secresie, and *tis confirmed. 

Fas. Then here I call our good genii for wit- 16 
nesses, whatsoever your designes are, or against 
whomsoever, I will not onely be a special! actor 
therein, but never disclose it till it be effected. 

Hip. I take thy word, and, with that, thee 
for mine ; 
Come, then, let's more conferre of this anon, i? 

165-6 /or witnesses. So G-D. Q, foe-wit 

scw« ra.j '®te pits 39 

On this delicious bane my thoughts shall ban- 
quet ; 

Revenge shall sweeten what my griefes have 
tasted. Exeunt. 


\The street.'] 

Enter Richardetto and Pbilotis, 

Richardetto, Thou see'st, my lovely neece, 
.. these strange mishaps, 

I How all my fortunes turne to my disgrace, 
I Wherein I am but as a looker on 
^ Whiles others act my shame, and I am silent. 
Philotis. But, unkle, wherein can this bor- 
rowed shape 5 
Give you content ? 

Rich. rie tell thee, gentle neece: 

Thy wanton aunt in her lascivious riotts 
Lives now secure, thinkes I am surely dead 
In my late journey to Ligorne for you, — 
As I have caus'd it to be rumord out, — lo 

Now would I see with what an impudence 
Shee gives scope to her loose adultery. 
And how the common voyce allowes hereof: 
Thus farre I have prevail'd. 

Phil. Alas, I feare 

You meane some strange revenge. 

40 »(B^i« ^ite (AcTiL 

Rich. O, be not troubled ; 15 

Your ignorance shall pleade for you in all : 
But to our businesse. What! you learnt for 

How Signior Florio meanes to give his daughter 
In marriage to Soranzo ? 

Phil. Yes, for certaine. 

Rich. But how finde you young Annabella's 
love so 

Inclind to him ? 

/%/'/. • For ought I could perceive. 

She neyther fancies him or any else. 

Rich. There's mystery in that which time 
must shew. 
Shee us'd you kindly ? 

/%//. Yes. 

Rich. And crav'd your company ? 

Phil. Often. 

Rich. 'T is well ; it goes as I could wish. H 
I am the doctor now ; and as for you. 
None knowes you ; if all faile not, we shall thrive. 

(^Enter Grimaldi.) 
But who comes here? I know him ; 'tis Grimaldi, 
A Roman and a souldier, neere allyed 
Unto the Duke of Montferrato, one f 

Attending on the nuntio of the pope 

24-5 Shee us* d , . . could loish, Q does not obienrevcfie 

Scene m.] *tEiS Wit^ 41 

That now resides in Parma; by which meanes 
He hopes to get the love of Annabella. 

Grimaldi. Save you, sir. 

Rich, And you, sir. 

Gri. I have heard 

Of your approved skill, which through the 

city 35 

Is freely talkt of, and would crave your ayd. 

Rich. For what, sir? 

Gri. Marry, sir, for this — 
But I would speake in private. 

Rich. Leave us, cozen. 

Exit Phi. 
' Gri. I love faire Annabella, and would know 40 
Whether in arts there may not be receipts 
To move affection. 

Rich. Sir, perhaps there may; 

But these will nothing profit you. 

Gri. Not mee? 

Rich. Unlesse I be mistooke, you are a man 
Greatly in favour with the cardinall. 45 

Gri. What of that ? 

Rich. In duty to his gface, 

I will be bold to tell you, if you seeke 
To marry Florio's daughter, you must first 
Remove a barre twixt you and her. 

Gri. Whose that? 

41 arts. Changed by D in G-D to art. 

42 'tZTtopite (Acrn. 

' Rich. Soranzo is the man that hath her heart; s^ 
And while hee lives, be sure you cannot speed. 

Gri. Soranzo ! what, mine enemy ! is't hee? 

Rich» Is hee your enemy? 

Gri. The man I hate 

Worse then confusion; Fie tell him streight. 

Rich, Nay, then, take mine advice, 51 

Even for his graces sake, the cardinal! : 
I'le finde a time when hee and shee doe meete, 
Of which rie give you notice ; and, to be sure 
Hee shall not scape you, Tie provide a poyson 
To dip your rapiers poynt in : if hee had 6( 

As many heads as Hidra had, he dyes. 

Gri. But shall I trust thee, doctor? 

Rich. As your selfc; 

Doubt not in ought; thus shall the fates decree, 
By me Soranzo falls, that ruin'd mee. 


[SCENA QUAKTh — Another part of the 


Enter Donado, Bergetto and Poggio. 

Donado. Well, sir, I must bee content to be 

both your secretary and your messenger my selfc. 

I cannot tell what this letter may worke ; but, 

as sure as I am alive, if thou come once to talkc 

54 till. G suggests to. 

64 ruiri'd. So G-D. ^ mm*d. 

Scene IVJ 'tCftf JBit? 43 

with her, I feare thou wu't marre whatsoever I 5 

Bergetto. You make, unkle ? Why am not I 
bigge enough to carry mine owne letter, I pray ? 

Do, I, I, carry a fooles head o' thy owne ! 
Why, thou dunce, wouldst thou write a letter, lo 
and carry it thy selfe? 

Ber. Yes, that I wudd, and reade it to her 
with my owne mouth ; for you must thinke, if 
shee will not beleeve me my selfe when she 
heares me speake, she will not beleeve anothers is 
handwriting. O, you thinke I am a blocke- 
head, unkle. No, sir. Poggio knowes I have In- 
dited a letter my selfe ; so I have. 

Poggio, Yes, truely, sir ; I have it my pocket. 

Do, A sweete one, no doubt ; pray, let's see't. 20 

Ber, I cannot reade my owne hand very well, 
Poggio ; reade it, Poggio. 

Do, Begin. 

Poggio reades, 

Pog, Most dainty and honey-sweete Mistresse : 
I could call you fair e^ and lie as fast as any that 25 
loves you ; but my unkle being the elder man^ I 
leave it to him^ as more jit for his age and the colour 
of his beard, I am wise enough to tell you I can board 
where I see occasion ; or if you like my unkles wit 
better then mine j you shall marry mee ; if you like 3° 
mine better then his^ I will marry you in spight of 

44 '®i«|BitS (Aan. 

your teeth. So^ commending my bnt parts t§ ytu^ I 

Tours upwards and downewards^ 

or y9u may chose^ 35 


Ber, Ah, ha ! here's stufFe, unkle ! 

Do. Here's stufie indeed to shame us all. 
Pray, whose advice did you take in this learned 
letter ? 40 

Pog, None, upon my word, but mine owne. 

Ber. And mine, unkle, beleeve it, no bodies 
else ; 'twas mine owne brayne, I thanke a good 
wit for't. I 

Do. Get you home, sir, and looke you keepe 45 
within doores till I returne. 

Ber. How ! that were a jest indeedc i I scome 
it, yfaith. 

Do. What ! you doe not ? 

Ber. Judge me, but I doe now. 50 

Pog. Indeede, sir, 'tis very unhealthy. 

Do. Well, sir, if I heare any of your apish 
running to motions and fopperies till I come 
backe, you were as good no; looke too't. 

Exit Do. 

Ber. Poggio, shall 's steale to see this hone 55 
with the head in's tayle ? 

Pog. I, but you must take heede of whipping. 

Ber. Dost take me for a child, Poggio? \ 
Come, honest Poggio. Exnmt. f 


Scene VJ 'tCtS JBit? 45 

[SCENA QUINT A — Friar Bonaventura's 


Enter Fryar and Giovanni, 

Fryar. Peace, thou hast told a tale whose every 
Threatens eternall slaughter to the soule : 
Tme sorry I have heard it ; would mine eares 
Had beene one minute deafe, before the houre 
That thou cam'st to mee! O young man cast- 
away, 5 
By the relligious number of mine order, 
I day and night have wak't my aged eyes 
Above thy strength, to weepe on thy behalfe ; 
^ But Heaven is angry, and be thou resolv'd 
'- Thou art a man remark't to tast a mischiefe. lo 
\ Looke for't ; though it come late, it will come 
\ sure. 

Giovanni, Father, in this you are uncharitable ; 
What I have done Fie prove both fit and good. 
It is a principall, which you have taught 
When I was yet your schoUer, that the f [r]ame 15 
And composition of the minde doth follow 
The frame and composition of body : 
So, where the bodies furniture is beauty, 

6 number, G ZM^tx^ founder. 8 thy, G, my. 

Corrected by G. 
G-D supplies [the] before body. 

'5 /[rlame. 
17 of body, ( 


46 'tCftf JBit? IactE. 

The mindes must needs be vertue; which allowed, 

Vertue it selfe is reason but refin'd, 10 

And love the quintessence of that : this proves 

My sisters beauty being rarely faire 

Is rarely vertuous ; chiefely in her love. 

And chiefely in that love, her love to me. 

If hers to me, then so is mine to her; 15 

Since in like causes are effects alike. 

Fry. O ignorance in knowledge ! Long agoe. 
How often have I warn'd thee this before I 
Indeede, if we were sure there were no deity, 
Nor heaven nor hell, then to be lead alone 30 
By natures light — as were philosophers 
Of elder times — might instance some defence. 1 
But 'tis not so ; then, madman, thou wilt finde 
That nature is in heavens positions blind. 
Gio, Your age o're rules you ; had you youth 

like mine, ' 3$ 

You'd make her love your heaven, and her 

Fry. Nay, then I see th' art too farre sold to 

It lies not in the compasse of my prayers 
To call thee backe ; yet let me counsell thee : 
Perswade thy sister to some marriage. 40 

Gio. Marriage! why, that's to dambe her; 

that's to prove 
Her greedy of variety of lust. 



Scxnev.) 'tCftfJBit? 47 

Fry. O fearefuU ! if thou wilt not, give me 

To shrive her, lest shee should dye un-absolv*d. 
Gio. At your best leasure, father : then shee'le ^ 

tell you 45 

How dearely shee doth prize mymatchlesse love ; 
Then you will know what pitty 'twere we two 
Should have beene sundred from each others 

View well her face, and in that little round 
You may observe a world of variety ; 50 

For colour, lips ; for sweet perfumes, her breath ; 
For jewels, eyes ; for threds of purest gold, 
Hayre ; for delicious choyce of flowers, cheekes ; 
Wonder in every portion of that throne. 
Heare her but speake, and you will sweare the 

sphaeres 55 

Make musicke to the cittizens in heaven. 
But, father, what is else for pleasure fram'd. 
Least I offend your eares, shall goe un-nam'd. 

Fry. The more I heare, I pitty thee the more. 
That one so excellent should give those parts 60 
All to a second death. What I can doe 
Is but to pray ; and yet I could advise thee, 
Wouldst thou be rul'd. 

Gio. In what ? 

Fry. Why, leave her yet : 

50 uoorld of 'variety, G-D, world's variety. 

48 '(li:i«|Uts (Acta 

The throne of mercy is above your trespasse; 
Yet time is left you both — 

Gio. To embrace each other. 6 

' Else let all time be strucke quite out of number: 
She is like mee, and I like her, resolved. 

Fry. No more ! I*le visit her ; this grieves me 
Things being thus, a paire of soules are lost* 


[SCENA SEXTA. J room in Fbrio's bouse.] 
Enter Florio^ Donade, AnnaMU, Putana. 

Florio, Where's Giovanni? 

Annahella. Newly walk't abroad, 

And, as I heard him say, gon to the fryar. 
His reverent tutor. 

Flo. That's a blessed man, 

A man made up of holinesse : I hope . 
Hee'Ie teach him how to gaine another world. 

Donado. Faire gentlewoman, here's a letter 
To you from my young cozen ; I dare sweare 
He loves you in his soule : would you could 

Sometimes what I see dayly, sighes and teares, 
As if his breast were prison to his heart. > 

Flo. Receive it, Annabella. 

Anna. Alas, good man ! 

vLj >t!Pfe fWtp 49 

Do. What's that she said ? 

Tutana. And please you, sir, she sayd, " Alas, 
good man!" Truely I doe commend him to her »5 
every night before her first sleepe, because I 
would have her dreame of him ; and shee hark- 
ens to that most relligiously. 

Do. Say'st so? Godamercy, Putana, there's 
something for thee ; and prythee doe what thou 20 
canst on his behalfe; sha' not be lost labour, 
take my word for't. 

Put. Thanke you most heartily, sir ; now I 
have a feeling of your mind, let mee alone to 
worke, »5 

Anna. Guardian ! 

Put. Did you call ? 

Anna. Keepe this letter. 

Do. Signior Florio, in any case bid her reade 
it instantly. 30 

Flo. Keepe it for what ? pray, reade it mee 
here right. 

Anna. I shall, sir. She reades. 

Do. How d'ee finde her inclined, signior ? 

Flo. Troth, sir, I know not how ; not all so 
well 35 

As I could wish. 

Anna. Sir, I am bound to rest your cozens 

21 Ska" G~D, 'shall. 

31 Kupe it for ivhatf G~D, Keep it ! for what ? 

50 'tKftf ^itS lAcTlL 

The Jewell Tie rcturne; for if he I6vc, 
rie count that love a jcwcll. 

Do, Markc you that ? — 

Nay, keepe them both, sweete maide. 

Jnna. You must excuse mee. 4^ 

Indeed I will not keepe it. 

Flo. Where's the ring 

That which your mother in her will bequeath'd, 
And charged you on her blessing not to give't 
To any but your husband ? Send backe that. 

Jnna. I have it not. 

Flo. Ha ! have it not ! where is't ? 45 

Jnna. My brother in the morning tooke it 

from me, [ 

Said he would weare't to day. ^ 

Flo. Well, what doe you say 

To young Bergetto's love ? Are you content 
To match with him ? Speake. 

Do. There's the poynt, indeed. 

jfnna [aside]. What shal I doe? I must say 
something now. 50 

Flo. What say ? Why d'ee not speake ? 

Anna. Sir, with your leave, 

Please you to give me freedome ? 

Flo. Yes, you have. 

Anna. Signior Donado, if your nephew meane 
To rayse his better fortunes in his match, 

52 Tes,you have. G-D supplies "it*' after "hire** 3 


sciNE VI.J 'tE^ig pit? 5 1 


The hope of mee will hinder such a hope : 
Sir, if you love him, as I know you doe, 55 

Find one more worthy of his choyce then mee. 
In short, Tme sure, I sha' not be his wife. 
Do, Why, here's plaine dealing ; I commend 

thee for't ; 
And all the worst I wish thee, is heaven blesse 

Your father yet and I will still be friends — 60 
Shall we not, Signior Florio ? 

Flo, Yes, why not ? 

Looke, here your cozen comes. 

Enter Bergetto and Poggio, 


Do, [aside']. Oh, coxcombe ! what doth he 
make here ? 

Bergetto. Where's my unkle, sirs ? ^5 

Do. What's the newes now? 

Ber, Save you, unkle, save you ! You must 
not thinke I come for nothing, maisters. And 
how, and how is't ? What, you have read my 
letter ? Ah, there I — tickled you, yfaith. 70 

Poggio [aside to Ber,"], But 'twere better you 
had tickled her in another place. 

Ber, Sirrah sweet-heart, I'le tell thee a good 
jest ; and riddle what 'tis. 

Anna, You say you'd tell mee. 75 

75 _yoaV. G~D, you'll. 

52 *t!ag ^ieg (Act IL 


Ber. As I was walking just now in the streete, 
I mett a swaggering fellow would needs take 
the wall of me ; and because hee did thrust me, I 
very valiantly cal'd him rogue. Hee hereupon 
bad me drawe ; I told him I had more wit then So 
so : but when hee saw that I would not, hee did 
so maule me with the hilts of his rapier that my 
head sung whil'st my feete caper'd in the ken- 

Do. Was ever the like asse seene ? 85 

Anna, And what did you all this while ? 

B^r, Laugh at him for a gull, till I see the 
blood runne about mine eares, and then I could 
not choose but finde in my heart to cry ; till a 
fellow with a broad beard — they say hee is a 90 
new-come doctor — cald mee into his house, and 
gave me a playster; looke you, here 'tis; and, 
sir, there was a young wench washt my face and 
hands most excellently ; yfaith, I shall love her 
as long as I live for't, — did she not, Poggio ? 95 

Pog, Yes, and kist him too. 

Ber. Why, la, now, you thinke I tell a lye, 
unkle, I warrant. 

Do. Would hee that beate thy blood out of 
thy head had beaten some wit into it ; for I feare 100 
thou never wilt have any. 

Ber, Oh, unkle, but there was a wench would 

87 ttt. G-D, saw. 91 Ait. So O-D. Q, this. 

SciNs vij 'tJHtf ^iC? 53 

have done a mans heart good to have lookt on 
f her ; by this light, shee had a face mee-thinks 
' worth twenty of you, Mistresse Annabella. J05 

Do. Was ever such a foole borne ? 

Anna. I am glad shee lik't you, sir. 

Ber. Are you so ? By my troth, I thanke you, 
/ Flo. Sure, 'twas the doctors neece, that was no 
/ last day with us here. 

Ber. *Twas shee ! *Twas shee ! 

Do, How doe you know that, simplicity ?. 

Ber. Why doe's not hee say so ? If I should 
have sayd no, I should have given him the lye, 115 
unkle, and so have deserv'd a dry beating again : 
I'le none of that. 

Flo. A very modest welbehav'd young maide 
As I have seene. 

Do. Is shee indeed ? 

Flo. Indeed 

Shee is, if I have any judgement. 120 

Do. Well, sir, now you are free ; you need 
not care for sending letters. Now you are dis- 
mist; your mistresse here will none of you. 

Ber. No ! why what care I for that ? I can 
have wenches enough in Parma for halfe a crowne 1 2 5 
a peece — cannot I, Poggio? 

li8->9 A •very . . . Aatfe seene, Q prints on one line. 
119--20 Indeed thee is . . . judgement. G-D prints on one line. 

54 'tCfepftB [ActE 

Pog. rie warrant you, sir. 

Do, Signior Florio, 
I thanke you for your free recourse you gave 
For my admittance; and to you, faire maide, 130 
That Jewell I will give you 'gainst your mar- 
Come, will you goe, sir? 

Ber. I, marry, will I. Mistres, farwell, mis- 
tres ; Pie come againe to morrow — farwell, 
mistres. Exit Do,, Ber, ^ Pog, 13 

Enter Gio. 
, Flo, Sonne, where have you beene ? What, 
( alone, alone, still, still ? 

1 I would not have it so; you must forsake 
This over bookish humour. Well, your sister 
Hath shooke the foole ofF. 

Giovanni, 'Twas no match for her. 

/• Flo, 'Twas not indeed; I ment it nothing 
/ lesse ; ii| 

Soranzo is the man I onely like. 
Looke on him,Annabella. — Come, *tis supper- 
And it growes late. Exit Florio, 

Gio, Whose Jewell's that ? 
Anna, Some sweet-hearts. 
Gio, So I thinke. 

128-32 Q prints as prose. 

136-9 Sonne • . . o^. Q prints as prose. 

136 ttill. G-D omits second ttill. 

>* 4-a t . "K*^ 

ScENz VL] »tCt0 JBtt^ 55 

^ Anna. A lusty youth, 145 

Signior Donado, gave it me to weare 
■ Against my marriage. 

^ Gio, But you shall not weare it ; 

/ Send it him backe againe. 

Anna. What, you are jealous ? 

Gio. That you shall know anon, at better 
Welcome sweete night ! the evening crownes 

the day. Exeunt. 150 

145-8 A lusty . . . gave it me, Q printa as one line; to weare 
. . . marriagey the next; but you . . . ^aine^ the next; Wkai 
. . . jealous ff the last. 


[SCENA PRIMA. A room in Donado's bou5e.'\ 

Enter Bergetto and Poggio, 

Bergetto. Do'es my unkle thinke to make mee 
a baby still ? No, Poggio, he shall know I have 
a skonce now. 

Poggio. I, let him not bobbe you oiF like an 
ape with an apple. < 

Ber, 'Sfoot, I will have the wench, if he were 
tenne unkles, in despight of his nose, Po^o. 

Pog. Hold him to the grynd-stone, and give 
not a jot of ground ; shee hath in a manner pro- 
mised you already. i< 

[5^.] True, Poggio, and her unkle, the doc- 
tor, swore I should marry her. 

Pog. He swore, I remember. 

Ber. And I will have her, that's more. Did'st 
see the codpeice-poynt she gave me, and the > 
box of mermalade ? 

Pog. Very well ; and kist you, that my chopps 
watred at the sight on't. There's no way but to 
clap up a marriage in hugger mugger. 

Ber. I will do't ; for I tell thee, ' Poggio, I % 

II-I2 True . . . her, Q gives this to Poggio. 

Scnf.L] 'tlTtopitS 57 

begin to grow valiant, methinkes, and my cour- 
age begins to rise. 

Pog, Should you be afraid of your unkle ? 

Ber. Hang him, old doating rascall ! no, I say 
I will have her. 25 

Pog, Lose no time, then. 

Ber. I will beget a race of wise men and con- 
stables that shall cart whoores at their owne 
charges ; and breake the dukes peace ere I have 
done my selfe. Come away. Exeunt, 30 

[SCENA SECUNDA. JroominFtmo'sbouse.] 

Enter Florio^ Giovanpu Soranzo^ jinnabella, Putana 

^nd Vasques. 

Florio, My Lord Soranzo, though I must con- 

The proffers that are made me have beene great 
In marriage of my daughter, yet the hope 
Of your still rising honours have prevaild 
Above all other joynctures: here shee is; 5 

She knowes my minde ; speake for your selfe to 

And heare you, daughter, see you use him nobly. 
For any private speech Tie give you time. 
Come, Sonne, and you the rest ; let them alone ; 
Agree as they may. 

10 j^ru, G-D inserts a second they after agree. 

58 't!Pi0)9its [AcTiiL 

Soranzo. I thanke you, sir. i 

,^ Giovanni [aside to Anna], Sister, be not all 

woeman ; thinke on me. 
Soran. Vasques ! 
Vasques. My lord. 

Soran. Attend me without. 

Exeunt omnes ; manet Soran. & Anna. 
Annahella. Sir, what's your will with me ? 
Soran. Doe you not know 

What I should tell you ? 

Anna, Yes, you'le say you love mee. 

Soran. And Pie sweare it too ; will you be- 

leeve it? i 

Anna. 'Tis not poynt of faith. 
Enter Giovanni above. 
Soran. Have you not will to love ? 

Anna. Not you. 
Soran. Whom then ? 

Anna. That's as the fates In ferre. 

Gio. [aside]. Of those Pme regieht now. 
Soran. What meane you, sweete ? 

- Anna. To live and dye a maide. 
Soran. Oh, that's unfit. 

Gio, [aside]. Here's one can say that's but a 

womans noate. 2 

Soran, Did you but see my heart, then would 

you sweare — 

13-14 Doe . . . tell you T Q prints as one line. 
16 * Tit not. G-D, *r«no. 

Scene HJ 'tlPIS fBltp 59 

Anna, That you were dead ! 

Gio. \aside^. That's true, or somewhat 

neere it. 
Soran. See you these true loves teares ? 
Anna. No. 

Gio. [aside] . Now shee winkes. 

Soran. They plead to you for grace. 
Anna, Yet nothing speake. 

Soran. Oh, grant my suite. 
Anna, What is 't ? 

. Soran, To let mee live — 15 

Anna, Take it. 
Soran. Still yours. 

Anna, That is not mine to give. 

Gio, [aside] , One such another word would 

kil his hopes. 
Soran, Mistres, to leave those fruitlesse strifes 
of wit, 
I know I have lov'd you long, and lov'dyoutruely : 
Not hope of what you have, but what you are, 30 
Have drawne me on ; then let mee not in vaine 
Still feele the rigour of your chast disdaine. 
^Fme sicke, and sicke to th' heart. 

Anna. Helpe ! aquavitae ! 

Soran. What meane you ? 
Anna, Why, I thought you had beene 

29 Iknvw, G-D, omital. 31 Have, G-D, hath. 

60 'tO^te |BitC (Act m. 

Soran. Doc you mocke my love ? 

Gio, \aside\. There, sir, shee was too 

nimble. o^ 

Soran. \aside] . 'Tis plaine ; shee laughes at 
me. — These scornefuU taunts 
Neither become your modesty or yeares. 

Anna. You are no looking-glasse ; or if you 
I'de dresse my language by you. 

Gio. [aside]. Pme confirm'd. 

Anna. To put you out of doubt, my lord, 
mee-thinks 40 

Your common sence should make you under- 
That if I lov'd you, or desir'd your love. 
Some way I should have given you better tast : 
But since you are a noble man, and one 
I would not wish should spend his youth in 

hopes, ^^ 

Let mee advise you here to forbeare your suite. 
And thinke I wish you well, I tell you this. 
Soran. Is*t you speake this ? 
Anna. Yes, I my selfe; yet know, — 

Thus farre I give you comfort, — if mine eyes 
Could have pickt out a man, amongst all those 50 
That sue'd to mee, to make a husband of, ^ 

36-47 ^Tu plaint, . . tell you this. Q prints at prase. 
46 htre, G-D omiti here. 



You should have beene that man : let this suffice. 
Be noble in your secresie and wise. 
^ Gio, [aside]. Why, now I see shee loves me. 

jfnna. One word more. 

As ever vertue liv'd within your mind, 55 

As ever noble courses were your guide. 
As ever you would have me know you lov'd 

Let not my father know hereof by you : 
If I hereafter finde that I must marry. 
It shall be you or none. 

Soran. I take that promise, 60 

— ^ Anna. Oh, oh, my head ! 
t Soran. What's the matter ? not well ? 

Anna. Oh, I begin to sicken ! 

Gio. [aside] . Heaven forbid ! 

Exit from above. 

Soran. Helpe, helpe, within there, ho ! 
Looke to your daughter, Signior Florio. 65 

[Re-]enter Florio , Giovanni^ Putana. 

Flo. Hold her up ; shee sounes. 

Gio. Sister, how d'ee ? 

Anna. Sicke, brother, are you there ? 

Flo. Convay her to her bed instantly, whil'st 
I send for a phisitian ; quickly, I say. 

Putana. Alas, poore child ! 70 

Exeunt; manet Soranzo. 

65 Looke . . . Florio. Q gives this to Giovanni. 

62 'tlPtepiti; [Acim. 

[^Re-J^enter Basques. 

Vas. My lord. 

Soran. Oh, Vasques, now I doubly am undone 
Both in my present and my future hopes : 
Shee plainely told me that shee could not love, 
And thereupon soone sickned, and I fear 75 

\ Her life's in danger, 

/ Vas. [aside] . Byr lady, sir, and so is yours, 

/ ifjyqu knew all. — 'Las, sir, I am sorry for that : 

' may bee 'tis but the maides-sicknesse, an over- 

fluxe of youth ; and then, sir, there is no such 80 

present remedy as present marriage. But hath 

shee given you an absolute deniall ? 

Soran. She hath and she hath not ; Pme full 
of griefe ; 
But what she sayd I'le tell thee as we goe. 


[SCENA TERTIA. J room in Florio's house.'] 

Enter Giovanni and Putana 
Putana. Oh, sir, wee are all undone, quite 

undone, utterly undone, and sham'd forever ! 

Your sister, oh, your sister ! 

Giovanni. What of her? For heavens sake, 

speake ; how do'es she ? 5 

Put. Oh, that ever I was borne to see this 

day ! 

Scene m.] 'tS^lfil ^It^ 63 

Gio, She is not dead, ha ? is shee ? 

Put. Dead? no, shee is quicke; 'tis worse, 
she is with childe. You know what you have xo 
done; heaven forgive 'ee ! 'Tis too late to repent, 
now heaven helpe us ! 

Gio. With child ? how dost thou know't ? 

Put. How doe I know't ! am I at these yeeres 
ignorant what the meaning's of quames and 15 
waterpangs be ? of changing of colours, quezi- 
nesse of stomacks, pukings, and another thing 
that I could name ? Doe not, for her and your 
credits sake, spend the time in asking how, and 
which way, 'tis so : shee is quick, upon my 20 
word : if you let a phisitian see her water, y'are 

Gio. But in what case is shee ? 

Put. Prettily amended : 'twas but a fit, which 
I soone espiM, and she must looke for often 15 

Gio. Commend me to her, bid her take no 
care ; 
Let not the doctor visit her, I charge you : 
Make some excuse till I returne. — Oh, mee ! 

have a world of businesse in my head. — - 30 

Doe not discomfort her. 

12 G^D puts the comma after now. Q, as here. 
31-3 Doe not , . . tvell. Arrangement of G-D. Q makes but 
two lines, beginning the second with If my father. 

64 ^tlUg ]dttS V^ ^' 

How doe this newes perplex mee ! — ^If my father 
Come to her, tell him shee's recovered well ; 
Say 'twas but some ill dyet ^ d'ee heare, woeman ? 
Looke you to't. 

Put. I will sir. Exeunt. 

[SCENA QUARTA. J room in Florio's house.'] 

Enter Florio and Ricbardetto. 
Florio. And how d'ee finde her, sir ? 
Ricbardetto. IndiiFerent well; 

' I see no danger, scarse perceive shee's sicke, 
- But that shee told mee shee had lately eaten 
Mellownes, and, as shee thought, those dis- 
With her young stomacke. 

Flo. Did you give her ought ? 

Ricb. An easie surfeit water, nothing else. 
You neede not doubt her health : I rather thinke 
Her sicknesse is a fulnesse of her blood, — 
You understand mee ? 

Flo. I doe ; you counsell well ; 

And once, within these few dayes, will so order't 
She shall be married ere shee know the time. 
Rich. Yet let not hast, sir, make unworthy 
choice ; 
That were dishonour. 

Flo. Maister Doctor, no ; 

SCXNE IV.] 'tIPte ^it^ 65 

I will not doe so neither : in plaine words, 
My Lord Soranzo is the man I meane. 15 

. — Rich, A noble and a vertuous gentleman. 

Fh, As any is in Parma. Not farre hence 
Dwels Father Bonaventure, a grave fryar, 
Once tutor to my sonne : now at his cell 
rie have 'em married. 

Rich. You have plotted wisely. %o 

Flo. rie send one straight to speake with him 
to night. 

Rich, Soranzo's wise ; he will delay no time. 

Flo. It shall be so. 

y Enter Fryar and Giovanni, 

Fryar. Good peace be here and love ! 

Flo. Welcome, relligious fryar ; you are one 
That still bring blessing to the place you come 

to. 25 

Giovanni. Sir, with what speed I could, I did 
my best 
To draw this holy man from forth his cell 
To visit my sicke sister ; that with words 
Of ghostly comfort in this time of neede 
Hee might absolve her, whether she live or 

die. 30 

Flo. 'Twas well done, Giovanni ; thou herein 
Hast shewed a Christians care, a brothers love. 
Come, father, I'le conduct you to her chamber. 
And one thing would intreat you. 

66 'tIPte ^iti (Act m. 

Fry. Say on, sir. 

Flo. I have a fathers deare impression, 35 

And wish before I fall into my grave 
That I might see her married, as 'tis fit : 
\ A word from you, grave man, will winne her 

'. Then all our best perswasions. 
I Fry. Gentle sir, 

} All this rie say, that heaven may prosper her. 40 


[SCENA QUINTA. J room in Richardetto's 


Enter Grimaldi. 

Grimaldi. Now if the doctor keepe his word, 
Twenty to one you misse your bride. I know 
'Tis an unnoble act, and not becomes 
A souldiers vallour ; but in termes of love. 
Where merite cannot sway, policy must. 
' I am resolv'd ; if this phisitian 
Play not on both hands, then Soranzo falls. 

Enter Ricbardetta. 
Richardetto. You are come as I could wish; 
this very night 
Soranzo, 'tis ordain' d, must bee affied 

8-1 1 You are , , , married. Q prints as prose. 

sczNsv.) 'tE^iS^itz 67 

/To Annabella, and, for ought I know, 10 


Gri. How ! 

Rich. Yet your patience : — 

The place, 'tis Fryar Bona ventures cell. 
Now I would wish you to bestow this night 
In watching thereabouts ; 'tis but a night : 
If you misse now, to morrow Pie know all. 15 
Gri, Have you the poyson ? 
f Rich, Here, 'tis in this box : 

I Doubt nothing, this will doe't ; in any case, 
• As you respect your life, be quicke and sure. 
Gri. Fie speede him. 

Rich. Doe. Away ! for 'tis not safe 

You should be seene much here. Ever my love ! *o 
Gri. And mine to yoii. Exit Gri. 

Rich, So! if this hitt. Pie laugh and hug re- 
venge ; 
And they that now dreame of a wedding-feast 
May chance to mourne the lusty bridegromes 

But to my other businesse. Neice Philotis ! as 

EnUr Philotis. 
Philotis. Unkle. 
Rich. My lovely neece, 
^ You have bethought 'ee ? 
^ Phi. Yes, and, as you counsel'd, 

12 Fryar. Q, Fryare. 

68 'tO^te pit; (Act m. 

Fashion'd my heart to love him, but hee sweares 
Hee will to night be married ; for he feares 30 
\ His unkle else, if hee should know the drift. 
Will hinder all, and call his couze to shrift. 
/ Rich. To night ? why, best of all 5 but let mee 
\ see — 

I I — ha ! — yes, — so it shall be ; in disguise 
' Wee'le carely to the fryars ; I have thought on't. 35 

Enter Bergetto and Poggio, 
Phi, Unkle, hee comes. 
Rich. Welcome, my worthy couze. 

Bergetto, Lasse, pretty lasse, come busse, 

lasse ! Aha, Poggio ! 
[^/VZ^.] [aside'\ , There's hope of this yet. 
You shall have time enough ; withdraw a little ; 
Wee must conferre at large. 

Ber, Have you not sweete-meates or dainty 

devices for me ? 40 

Phi, You shall enough, sweet-heart. 
Ber, Sweet-heart ! marke that, Poggio. By 
my troth, I cannot choose but kisse thee once 
more for that word '' sweet-heart." Poggio, I 
have a monstrous swelling about my stomacke, 45 
whatsoever the matter be. 

Poggio, You shall have phisick for*t, sir. 
Rich, Time runs apace. 
Ber, Time's a blockhead. 

38 Thtre's . . . yet. So G^D. Q gives this to Philodo. 

scBNB VI.] 'tETitt p^ 69 

Rich, Be ruPd : when wee have done what's 
iitt to doe, 50 

Then you may kisse your fill, and bed her too. 


[SCENA SEXTA. Jnnabella' s chamber.'] 

Enter the fry ar sitting in a chayre / Annate lla kneel- 
ing and whispering to him; a table before them and 
zoax-lights. She toeepes and wrings her hands, 

Fryar. I am glad to see this pennance ; for, 
beleeve me. 
You have unript a soule so foule and guilty. 
As, I must tell you true, I marvaile how 
The earth hath borne you up : but weepe, weepe 

on ; 
These teares may doe you good ; weepe faster 

7^^ 5 

Whiles I doe reade a lecture. 

Annabella. Wretched creature ! 

-^ Fry, I, you are wretched, miserably wretched, 

1/ Almost condemned alive. There is a place, — . 

^ List, daughter, — in a blacke and hollow vault. 

Where day is never seene; there shines no 

sunne, 10 

But flaming horrour of consuming fires. 

Enter the fryar, Q adds in hit itudy ; thia is clearly a mistake 
and is corrected in G-D. 

70 'tIPte l^itP [Act in. 

A lightlesse supbure, cboakt with smoaky foggs 
Of an infected darknesse ; in this place 
Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts 
Of never dying deaths; there damned soules 
Roare without pitty ; there are gluttons fedd 
With toades and addars ; there is burning oyle 
Powr'd downe the drunkards throate ; the usurer 
Is forc't to supp whole draughts of molten gold j 
There is the murtherer for-ever stab'd, 
Yet can he never dye; there lies the wanton 
On racks of burning Steele, whiles in his soule 
Hee feeles the torment of his raging lust. 

Anna. Mercy ! Oh, mercy ! 

Fry. There stands these wretched things 

Who have dream't out whole yeeres in lawlesse 

And secret incests, cursing one another ; 
Then you will wish each kisse your brother gave 
Had been a daggers poynt ; then you shall heare 
How hee will cry, " Oh, would my wicked sister 
Had first beene damn'd, when shee did yeeld to 

lust!" — 
But soft, methinkes I see repentance worke 
New motions in your heart : say, how is't with 

Anna. Is there no way left to redeeme my 
miseries ? 

24 itandi. G-D, stand. 

scKNE VL] ^tE^ig ^it^ 71 

Fry. There is, despaire not ; heaven is merci- 
j full 

I And offers grace even now. 'Tis thus agreed : 35 
■ . First, for your honours safety that you marry 
^ The Lord Soranzo ; next, to save your soule, 
* Leave off this life, and henceforth live to him. 
Anna. Ay mee ! 

Fry. Sigh not ; I know the baytes of sinne 
Are hard to leave ; oh, 'tis a death to doe*t : 40 

Remember what must come. Are you content ? 
Anna. I am. 

Fry. I like it well; wee'le take the ^ 

time. — ^ 

Who's neere us there ? 

Enter Florio^ Giovanni. 
Florio. Did you call, father? 

Fry. Is Lord Soranzo come ? 
FU. Hee stayes belowe. 

r Fry. Have you acquainted him at full ? 

FU. I have, 45 

And hee is over-joy'd. 

Fry. And so are wee. 

^ Bid him come neere. 

Giovanni [aside] . My sister weeping, ha ! 
I feare this fryars falshood. — I will call him. 
^- Exit. 

45-8 / kave . . . call Aim. Q prints as four lines ending with 
. . , over-jay*{l . , . neere . . . falshood . . . htm. 

72 *tB^t* pitP [Act HI. 

Fb. Daughter, are you resolv*d ? 

Anna. Father, I am. 

\Re-'\enter Giovanni [taitb"] Soranzo and Vasques. 

Flo. My Lord Soranzo, here 
Give mee your hand; for that I give you this. 

Soranzo. Lady, say you so too ? 

Anna. I doe, and vow 

To live with you and yours. 

Fry, Timely resolv'd : 

My blessing rest on both ! More to be done. 
You may performe it on the morning-sun. 
J Exeunt. 

[SCENA SEPTIMA. The street before the 


Enter Grimaldi with bis rapier drazone and a darke- 


Grimaldi. 'Tis early night as yet, and yet too 
To finish such a worke ; here I will lye 
To listen who comes next. Hee lies dotone. 

Enter Bergetto and Phi lot is disguis^ d ; and, after, 

Richardetto and Poggio. 
Bergetto. Wee are almost at the place, I hope, 

Gri. \aside^ . I heare them neere, and heard 
one say " sweet-heart." 

52-3 I doe , . , yours . . . Q prints as one line. 

'Tis hee ; now guide my hand, some angry justice. 
Home to his bosome ! Now^iiave at you, sir ! 

^ Strikes Ben and exit. 

Ber. Oh, helpe, helpe ! here's a stich fallen 
in my gutts. Oh, for a flesh-taylor quickly ! — 
Po^io ! lo 

Philotis. What ayles my love ? 

Ber. I am sure I cannot pisse forward and 
backward, and yet I am wet before and behind. 
— Lights ! lights ! ho, lights ! 

Phi. Alas, some villaine here has slaine my 
love. ,15 

/ Richardetto. Oh, heaven forbid it ! Raise up 

the next neighbours 
Instantly, Poggio, and bring lights. Exit Poggio. 
How is't, Bergetto ? slaine ? It cannot be ; 
Are you sure y*are hurt ? 

Ber. O, my belly seeths like a porridge-pot ! 20 
Some cold water, I shall boyle over else : my 
whole body is in a sweat, that you may wring 
my shirt; feele here — why, Poggio ! 

[^Re-"] enter Poggio with officers and lights and haiberts. 

Poggio. Here. Alas, how doe you ? 

Rich. Give me a light. What's here? all 
blood ! O, sirs, 25 

Signior Donado's nephew now is slaine. 
Follow the murtherer with all the haste 

18-19 ^* cannot . . . hurt. Q prints as one line. 

74 'tirfafJBiti? fAcrm. 

Up to the citt)? ; hee cannot be farre hence : 
Follow, I beseech you. 

Officers. Follow, follow, follow ! 

Exeunt officers. 
Rich. Teare ofF thy linen, couz, to stop his 
wounds. 30 

Be of good comfort, man. 
J Ber. Is all this mine owne blood ? Nay, then, 
/ good-night with me. Poggio, commend me to 
i my unkle, dost heare ? Bid him, for my sake, 
j make much of this wench. - — Oh ! — I am go- 35 
ing the wrong way sure, my belly akes so. — 
Oh, farwell, Poggio ! —Oh !— Oh ! — Dyes. 
Phi. O, hee is dead ! 
Pog. How ! dead ! 

Rich. Hee's dead indeed; 

*Tis now to late to weepe : let's have him home. 
And with what speed we may finde out the 

murtherer. 4® 

Pog. Oh,mymaister! mymaister! mymaister! 


[SCENA OCTAVA. J room in Hippolita's 


Enter Vasques and Hippolita. 
Hippolita. Betroath'd? 
Vasques. I saw it. 
Hip. And when*s the marriage-day ? 

sc««vin.j 'tEri0]^it? 75 

; Vas. Some two dayes hence. 

-- Hip. Two dayes ! Why, man, 1 would but 

wish two houres 
To send him to his last and lasting sleepe; 5 

And, Vasques, thou shalt see Tie doe it bravely. 

Vas. I doe not doubt your wisedome, nor, I 
trust, you my secresie ; I am infinitely yours. 

Hip. I wilbe thine in spight of my disgrace. — 
So soone ? O wicked man, I durst be sworne 10 
Hee'd laugh to see mee wieepe. 

Vas. And that's a villanous fault in him. 

Hip. No, let him laugh ; Tme arm'd in my 
Be thou still true. 

Vas. I should get little by treachery against so 15 
hopefuU a preferment as I am like to climbe to. 

Hip. Even to my bosome, Vasques ! Let my 
Revell in these new pleasures ; if wee thrive, 
Hee now hath but a paire of dayes to live. Exeunt. 

[SCENA NONA. The street before the Car- 

dinar s gates. "^ 

Enter Fkrio, Donado, Ricbardetto, Poggio and Officers. 

Florio. *Tis bootlesse now to shew your selfe 
a child, 
Signior Donado; what is done, is done : 
Spend not the time in teares, but seeke for justice. 

76 'dTfe IBitp [Act m. 

Richardetto. I must confesse somewhat I was 
) in fault 

That had not first acquainted you what love 5 

Past twixt him and my neece; but, as I live, 
His fortune grieves me as it were mine owne. 
/ Donado. Ala£sJ^4icorecreature ! he ment no 
/ man harmei.. "" 

/ That J am sure of. 

Fh. I beleeve that too. 

But stay, my maister?, are you sure you saw 10 
The murtherer passe here ? 

\^Firsf\ Officer. And it please you, sir, wee 
are sure wee saw a ruffian with a naked weapon 
in his hand all bloody get into my Lord Cardi- 
nals Graces gate; that wee are sure of; but for 15 
feare of his grace, bless us, we durst goe no 

Do. Know you what manner of man hee was ? 

\^Second^ Officer. Yes, sure I know the man; 
t they say a is a souldier; hee that lov'd your 20 
daughter, sir, an't please y'ee ; 'twas hee for cer- 

Flo. Grimaldi, on my life ! 

[^Second'\ Officer. I, I, the same. 

Rich. The Cardinall is noble ; he no doubt 
Will give true justice. 

Do. Knock, some one, at the gate. 25 

Poggio. rie knocke, sir. Poggio knocks. 


scENx IX.] 'tE^ig |Bttp 77 

Servant (toitbin). What would 'ee ? 

Flo. Wee require speech with the Lord Car- 
About some present businesse: pray informe 
His grace that we are here. 30 

Enter Cardinall and GrimaldL 

CardinaL Why, how now, friends ! What 
sawcy mates are you 
That know nor duty nor civillity ? 
Are we a person fit to be your hoast. 
Or is our house become your common inne. 
To beate our dores at pleasure ? What such haste 35 
Is yours as that it cannot waite fit times ? 
Are you the maisters of this common-wealth, 
And know no more discretion ? Oh, your newes 
Is here before you ; you have lost a nephew, 
Donado, last night by Grimaldi slaine : 40 

Is that your businesse ? Well, sir, we have know- 
ledge on't ; 
Let that suffice. 

Grimaldi. In presence of your grace. 
In thought I never ment Bergetto harme ; 
But, Florio, you can tell with how much scorne 
Soranzo, backt with his confederates, 45 

Hath often wrong'd mee; I to be reveng'd, — 
For that I could not win him else to fight, — 
Had thought by way of ambush to have kild him. 
But was unluckely therein mistooke ; 

■ (. 



78 'WifS^it^ [AcTin. 

I Else hee had felt what late Bergetto did : 50 

I And though my fault to him were meerely chance, 
I Yet humbly I submit me to your grace, 
)To doe with mee as you please. 

Car, Rise up, Grimaldi. 

You cittizens of Parma, if you seeke 
For justice, know, as nuntio from the Pope, 55 
\ For this offence I here receive Grimaldi 
f Into his holinesse protection. 
Hee is no common man, but nobly borne. 
Of princes blood, though you. Sir Florio, 
Thought him to meane a husband for your 

daughter. 60 

If more you seeke for, you must goe to Rome, 
For hee shall thither : learne more wit, for shame. 
Bury your dead. — Away, Grimaldi ; leave 'em. 

Ex. Car. ^ GrL 

Do, Is this a church-mans voyce? Dwels 

justice here ? 
Flo, Justice is fledd to heaven, and comes no 
neerer. 65 

Soranzo ! Was*t for him ? O, impudence ! 
Had he the face to speake it, and not blush ? 
Come, come, Donado, there's no helpe in this. 
When cardinals thinke murder's not amisse. 
Great men may do there wills, we must obey ; 70 
But heaven will judge them for't another day. 




[SCENA PRIMA. A room in Florio's house.] 

A banquet. Hoboyes. 

Enter the Fryar, Giovanni^ Annabeila, Pbilotisy Sor- 
anzo, Donado^ Elorio, RicbardettOy Put an a and 

Fryar, These holy rights perform'd, now take 
your times 
To spend the remnant of the day in feast : 
Such fit repasts are pleasing to the saints 
Who are your guests, though not with mortal! 

To be beheld. Long prosper in this day, 5 

You happy couple, to each others joy ! 

Soranzo. Father, your prayer is heard; the 
hand of goodnesse 
Hath beene a sheild for me against my death ; 
And, more to blesse me, hath enricht my life 
With this most precious Jewell ; such a prize lo 
As earth hath not another like to this. 
Cheere up, my love ; and, gentlemen my friends, 
Rejoyce with mee in mirth : this day weeie crowne 
With lusty Clips to Annabella's health. 

Giovanni (aside). Oh, torture ! were the mar- 
^ riage yet undone, 15 

8o 'tETief l^iti? [act iv. 

Ere rde endure this sight, to see my love 
Clipt by another, I would dare confusion. 
And stand the horrour of ten thousand deaths. 
'^ Vasques. Are you not well, sir ? 

^ Gio. Prethee, fellow, wayte ; 

I neede not thy officious diligence. 

Florio. Signior Donado,come, you must forget 
Your late mishaps, and drowne your cares in 
Soran. Vasques! 
Vas. My lord. 

Soran. Reach me that weighty bowle. 

" Here, brother Giovanni, here's to you ; 
Your turne comes next, though now a batche- 
^ Here's to your sisters happinesse and mine ! 
^ Gio. I cannot drinke. 
Soran, What ! 

Gio. 'Twill indeede offend me. 

Annahella. Pray, doe not urge him, if hee be 

not willing. 
rFlo, How now ! what noyse is this ? 
Vas. O, sir, I had forgot to tell you ; certaine 
young maidens of Parma, in honour to Madam 
Annabella's marriage, have sent their loves to 

29 How . . . thh t 6-D inserts the stage direction Hatttboyi 
before this line. 

31 young, Q, youg. 

her in a masque, for which they humbly crave 
your patience and silence. 

Soran. Wee are much bound to them; so 
much the more 35 

As it comes unexpected : guide them in. 


Enter liippolita and Ladies in white roubes toitb gar- 
\/^ lands oftoillowes, 

Musicke and a Daunce, 
Soran. Thanks, lovely virgins ! now might wee 
but know 
To whom wee have beene beholding f^r^this 

We shall acknowledge it. 

Hippolita. Yes, yofu shall know. 

' \ [ Unmasks. "^ 
What thinke you now ? 

Omnes, Hippolita ! 

Hip. 'Tis shee; 40 

Bee not amaz'd ; nor blush young lovely bride ; 
I come not to defraud you of your man : 
*Tis now no time to reckon up the talke 
What Parma long hath rumour'd of us both : 
Let rash report run on; the breath that vents it 45 

35-6 19^ee . . . in. Q prints as prose. 

38 tAis. So &-D ; so copy in British Museum and copy in Bos- 
ton Public Library, Dyce*8 copy had tAy ; so copy in library of the 
University of UUnms. 

82 ^tEfie ^it^ (Act IV. 

Will, like a bubble, breake it selfe at last. 

But now to you, sweet creature ; — lend's your 

hand ; — 
Perhaps it hath beene said that I would claime 
Some interest in Soranzo, now your lord; 
What I have right to doe his soule knowes best : < 
But in my duty to your noble worth, 
Sweete Annabella, and my care of you. 
Here take, Soranzo, take this hand from me ; 
Fie once more joyne what by the holy Church 
Is finish't and allow'd. Have I done well ? t 

Soran, You have too much ingag'd us. 
Hip, One thing more, 

That you may know my single charity. 
Freely I here remit all interest 
I ere could clayme, and give you backe your 

vowes ; 
And to confirm't, — reach me a cup of wine, — < 
My Lord Soranzo, in this draught I drinke 
Long rest t'ee ! — \^Aside to Fasques.] Looke to 

it, Vasques. 
/Vas, Fear nothing. 

He gives her a poysond cup ; she drinks, < 
Soran. Hippolita, I thanke you, and will pledge «« 
This happy union as another life. — 
Wine, there ! 

Vas. You shall have none; neither shall you 
pledge her. 

scBiTE I.] ^tETte i^it? 83 

/ Hip. How! 

/ Vas. Know now, mistresse shee devill, your 
, owne mischievous treachery hath kild you; I 70 
\ must not marry you. 
■. Hip. Villaine! 
j Omnes. What's the matter? 

Vai. Foolish woeman, thou art now like a 
/fire-brand that hath kindled others and burnt thy 75 
; selfe : — Troppo sperar^ inganna^ — thy vaine hope 
I hath deceived thee ; thou art but dead ; if thou 
1 hast any grace, pray. 
Hip. Monster! 

Vas. Dye in charity, for shame. This thing go 
of malice, this woman, had privately corrupted 
mee with promise of malice, under this politique 
reconciliation to poyson my lord, whiles shee 
might laugh at his confusion on his marriage day. 
I promised her faire, but I knew what my reward 85 
should have beene, and would willingly have 
spar'd her life, but that I was acquainted with 
the danger of her disposition; and now have 
fitted her a just payment in her owne coyne : 
there shee is, shee hath yet — and end thy dayes 90 
in peace, vild woman; as for life, there's no 
hope ; thinke not on't. 
— , Omnes. Wonderfull justice ! 

76 inganna. So 6-D. Q, niganna. 

82 mUice, Changed in G-D to marriage. 

84 'Wii^itS [Act IV. 

Richardetto, Heaven, thou art righteous. 
Hip. O, 'tis true; 

I feele my minute comming. Had that slave 9 
Kept promise, — O, my torment, — thou this 

Had'st dyed, Soranzo ; — heate above hell fire ! — 
Yet ere I passe away, — cruell,cruell flames, — 
Take here my curse amongst you ; may thy bed 
Of marriage be a racke unto thy heart, 10 

Burne blood and boyle in vengeance — O, my 

My flame's intolerable! — maist thou live 
To father bastards ; may her wombe bring forth 
Monsters ; and dye together in your sinnes, 
Hated, scorn'd and unpittied — Oh ! — Oh ! ic 

^ Flo. Was e're so vild a creature ? 
** Rich. Here's the end 

Of lust and pride. 

Jnna. It is a fearefull sight. 

Soran. Vasques, I know thee now a trusty 


And never will forget thee. — Come, my love, 

Wee'le home, and thanke the heavens for this 

escape. i 

Father and friends, wee must breake up this 

mirth ; 
It is too sad a feast. 

sciifB n.] 'tETitf piti; 85 

Donado. Beare hence the body. 

/ Fry. [aside to Gw.]. Here's an ominous 
/ change! 

Marke this, my Giovani, and take heed ! 
I feare the event; that marriage seldome's good "5 
Where the bride-banquet so begins in blood. 


[SCENA SECUNDA. J room in Richar- 

detto's house. ^ 

Enter Richardetto and Pbilotis, 
Richardetto. My wretched wife, more wretch- 
ed in her shame 
Then in her wrongs to me, hath paid too soone 
The forfeit of her modesty and life. 
And I am sure, my neece, though vengeance 
j hover, 

■ Keeping aloofe yet from Soranzo's fall, 5 

i Yet hee will fall, and sinke with his owne 
I need not — now my heart pers wades me so — 
To further his confusion ;.|,bere is one 
begini.ta.worke : for, as"! heare, 

ready twixt his wife and him 10 

2 hath, Q in Boston Public Library misprints a second hath fol- 
lowing this ; the copy at the University of Illinois has only one. 

7 now, O-D puts the dash after now. Q prints nov) , , , so m 

86 *1E^ig^it2 [A<^i^- 

I Thicken and run to head ; shee, as 'tis sayd, 
1 Sleightens his love, and he abandons hers : 
Much talke I heare. Since things goe thus, my 

In tender love and pitty of your youth, 
Mycounsell is, that you should free your yeeres 15 
From hazard of these woes by flying hence 
. To faire Cremona, there to vow your soule 
' In holinesse a holy votaresse : 
Leave me to see the end of these extreames. ' 

All humane worldly courses are uneven ; 20 

• No life is blessed but the way to heaven. 

Philotis, Unkle, shall I resolve to be a nun ? 
Rich. I, gentle neece, and in your hourely 
Remember me, your poore unhappy unkle. 
Hie to Cremona now, as fortune leades, 25 

Your home your cloyster, your best friends your 
^ beades. 

Your chast and single life shall crowne your 

Who dyes a virgine, live a saint on earth. 
Phi, Then farwell, world, and worldly 
thoughts, adeiu ! 
Welcome, chast vowes ; myselfe I yeeld t6 you. 30 


28 live. 6-D, live[8]. 

scEMB m.) 'tEri0 l^it? 87 

[SCENA TERTIA. A chamber in Soranzo's 
y house J^ 

tenter Soranzo unbracUy and Annabella dragged in, 

Soranzo. Come, strumpet, famous whoore! 
were every drop 
Of blood that runs in thy adulterous veynes 
A life, this sword — dost see't? — should in one 

Confound them all. Harlot, rare, notable harlot. 
That with thy brazen face maintainst thy sinne, 5 
Was there no man in Parma to be bawd 
To your loose cunning whoredome else but I ? 
Must your hot ytch and plurisie of lust, 
The heyday of your luxury, be fedd 
Up to a surfeite, and could none but I 10 

Be pickt out to be cloake to your close tricks, 
Your belly-sports ? Now I must be the dad 
To all that gaily maufrey that's stuft 
In thy corrupted bastard-bearing wombe ! 
y Say, must I ? 

/ Annabella. Beastly man, why 'tis thy fate. 15 
/ 1 sued not to thee ; for, but that I thought 
I Your over-loving lordship would have runne 
I Madd on denyall, had yee lent me time, 
I I would have told 'ee in what case I was : 
1 But you would needes be doing. 

88 '(!Pi0 pit? [Act IV. 

Soran. Whore of whores ! 2 

Dar'st thou tell mee this ? 

Jnna, O, yes ; why not ? 

You were deceived in mee ; 'twas not for love 

!I chose you, but for honour: yet know this. 
Would you be patient yet, and hide your shame, 
Fde see whether I could love you. 

Soran, Excellent queane I 2 

Why art thou not with child ? 

Jnna. What needs all this. 

When 'tis superfluous ? I confesse I am. 
Soran, Tell mee by whome. 
Jnna, Soft, sir ! 'twas not in my bargaine. 
Yet somewhat, sir, to stay your longing stom- 

I'me content t'acquaint you with : The man, 3 
The more then man, that got this sprightly boy, — 
For 'tis a boy, that for glory, sir, ' 
Your heyre shalbe a sonne — 

Soran. Damnable monster ! 

Jnna. Nay, and you will not heare, I'le speake 

no more. 
Soran. Yes, speake, and speake thy last. 
jinna, A match, a match ! — 3 

This noble creature was in every part 

28 sir. G-D omits. 30 Pme. G-D, I am. 

32 that for glory y dr, G^D accepts the correctioii of Doddej, 
reading \and\ therefore glory ^ sir. 

csNx m.] ^tH^ig ^tt? 89 

lo angelMike, so glorious, that a woeman 
iVho had not beene but human, as was I, 
iVould have kneel'd to him, and have beg'd for 

love. — 
if ou ! why you are not worthy once to name 40 
lis name without true worship, or, irideede, 
Jnlesse you kneel'd, to heare another name 

Soran. What was hee cal'd ? 

jfnna. Wee are not come to that ; 

L^et it suffice that you shall have the glory 
To father what so brave a father got. 45 

[n briefe, had not this chance falne out as't doth, 
'. never had beene troubled with a thought 
That you had beene a creature : — but for 

] scarce dreame yet of that. 

Soran, Tell me his name. 

jfnna. Alas, alas, there's all ! Will you be- 
leeve ? 50 

Soran. What? 

jfnna. You shall never know. 

Soran. How ! 

jfnna. Never. 

f you doe, let mee be curst. 

Soran. Not know it, strumpet ! Pie ripp up 
thy heart, 
Vnd finde it there. 

90 'tKte pit? [Act IV. 

Jnna. Doe, doe ! 

Soran. And with my teeth 

Teare the prodigious leacher joynt by joynt. 

Anna. Ha, ha, ha ! the man's merry. 

Soran. Do'st thou laugh ? 

Come, whore, tell mee your lover, or, by truth 
rie hew thy flesh to shreds ; who is't ? ^ 

Anna. Che morte [piu\ dolce che morye per 
amore? ^ {Sings. 

Soran. Thus will I pull thy hayre, and thus 
rie drag 
Thy lust be-leapred body through the dust. 
Yet tell his name. 

Anna. Morendo in gra [zj ia \dee\ morir&^en%a 
dolore. ^ {Sings. 

Soran. Dost thou triumph ? The treasure of 
the earth 
Shall not redeeme thee ; were there kneeling kings 
Did begge thy life, or angells did come downe 
To plead in teares, yet should not all prevayle 
Against my rage : do'st thou not tremble yet ? 

Anna. At what ? to dye ? No, be a gallant 
hang-man ; 
I dare thee to the worst : strike, and strike home. 
[I] leave revenge behind, and thou shalt feel't. 

59 [^'"]* Q» fluii, 63 grazia, Q, gratia. 

63 [iee,] Q, L^i. These corrections of the Ituon fidlow G-D. 
Weber printed the line thus : Morendo in gratia Dei morire $emsa 


scBiTB m.] ^tEii pit^ 9 1 

Soran. Yet tell mee ere thou dyest, and tell mee 
^ Knowes thy old father this ? 
*^ jfnna. No, by my life. 

Soran, Wilt thou confesse, and I will spare 
thy life ? 
/ Anna, My life ? I will not buy my life so deare. 75 
I Soran. I will not slacke my vengeance. 

Enter Vasques, 
Vasques, What d'ee meane, sir ? 

Soran. Forbeare, Vasques ; such a damned 
Deserves no pitty. 

Vas, Now the gods fore fend ! 

And wud you be her executioner, and kill her 
in your rage, too ? O, 'twere most un-manlike. 80 
Shee is your wife : what faults hath beene done 
by her before she married you, were not against 
you. Alas, poore lady, what hath shee com- 
mitted which any lady in Italy in the like case 
would not ? Sir, you must be ruled by your 85 
reason, and not by your fury ; that were unhu- 
mane and beastly. 

Soran. Shee shall not live. 
Vas, Come, shee must. You would have her 
confesse the authors of her present misfortunes, 90 

79 Koud. G-D, would. 

90 autkort. So Q ^^^ O* ^ changes to author. 

92 »t!n« pit? [Act IV. 

I warrant 'ee ; 'tis an unconscionable demand, 
and shee should loose the estimation that I, for 
my part, hold of her worth, if shee had done it. 
Why, sir, you ought not of all men living to 
* know it. Good sir, bee reconciled. Alas, good * 
! gentlewoman. 

Jnna. Pish, doe not beg for mee ; I prize my 
As nothing. If the man will needs bee madd. 
Why let him take it. 

Soran. Vasques, hear'st thou this ? 

, Fas. Yes, and commend her for it; in thisic 
f shee shews the noblenesse of a gallant spirit, and 
' beshrew my heart, but it becomes her rarely. — 
\^Jside to Soran,^ Sir, in any case smother your 
; revenge ; leave the senting out your wrongs to 
j mee : bee rul'd, as you respect [y] our honour, ic 
or you marr all. — \_Aloud.'\ Sir, if ever my ser- 
vice were of any credit with you, be not so vio- 
lent in your distractions : you are married now, 
what a tryumph might the report of this give to 
other neglected sutors ! 'Tis as manlike to beare 1 1 
extremities as godlike to forgive. 

Soran. O, Vasques, Vasques, in this peece of 
This faithlesse face of hers, had I layd up 

104 senting out. G-D, scenting-out. 

105 [y] our, Q, hour. 

Scene IH.] 'tD^t0 ^Vt^ 93 

The treasure of my heart ! — Hadst thou beene 

Faire wicked woeman, not the matchlesse joyesiis 
Of life it selfe had made mee wish to live 
With any saint but thee : deceitfull creature, 
How hast thou mock't my hopes, and in the 

Of thy lewd wombe even buried mee alive ! 
I did too dearely love thee. 120 

Fas. {aside). This is well ; follow this temper 
' with some passion : bee briefe and moving ; 'tis 
for the purpose. 

Soran, Be witnesse to my words thy soule 
and thoughts, 
And tell mee, didst not thinke that in my heart 125 
I did too superstitiously adore thee ? 

Jnna. I must confesse I know you lov'd mee 

Soran, And wouldst thou use mee thus ? O 
Bee thus assur'd, whatsoe're the villaine was 
That thus hath tempted thee to this disgrace, 130 
"*Well hee might lust, but never lov'd like mee : 
Hee doated on the picture that hung out 
Upon thy cheekes to please his humourous eye ; 

1 2 1-3 This is . . .purpose. Q prints as verse. 
129 Bee thus assured, txjhatsoe^re. 6-D, Be thou assurM, 

94 'tWfif i^it? lAcT IV. 

Not on the part I lov'd, which was thy heart. 
And, as I thought, thy vertues. 

Anna, O, my lord ! 135 

These words wound deeper then your sword 
could do. 
Vas, Let mee not ever take comfort, but I 
begin to weepe my selfe, so much I pitty him : 
why, madam, I knew when his rage was over- 
past, what it would come to. 140 
Sdran, Forgive mee, Annabella ; though thy 
Hath tempted thee above thy strength to folly. 
Yet will not I forget what I should bee. 
And what I am — a husband; in that name 
' f Is hid devinity : if I doe iinde 145 
That thou wilt yet be true, here I remit 
All former faults, and take thee to my bosome. 
Fas, By my troth, and that's a poynt of noble 
, Jnna. Sir, on my knees — 
Soran, Rise up, you shall not kneele. 
Get you to your chamber; see you make no 

shew 150 

Of alteration ; He be with you streight. 
My reason tells mee now that 'Tis\as common 
To erre in frailty as to bee a woeman. 
Goe to your chamber. Exit Anna. 

Vas. So! this was somewhat to the matter. 155 

Scene ra.J >tCfcBf ^it? 95 

What doe you thinke of your heaven of happi- 
nesse now, sir ? 

/ Soran. I carry hell about mee ; all my blood 

>^ Is fir'd in swift revenge. 

Vas, That may bee, but know you how, on 60 
on whom ? Alas, to marry a great woeman, be- 
ing made great in the stocke to your hand, is a 
usuall sport in these dayes ; but to know what 
secret it was that haunted your cunny-berry, — 
there's the cunning. 165 

Soran, I'le make her tell her selfe, or — 
f Vas. Or what ? — You must not doe so ; let 
me yet perswade your sufferance a little while. 
Goe to her ; use her mildly ; winne her, if it be 
possible, to a voluntary, to a weeping tune : for 170 
the rest, if all hitt, I will not misse my marke. 
Pray, sir, goe in. The next news I tell you 
\ shall be wonders. 

Soran. Delay in vengeance gives a heavyer 

blow. Exit, 

. Vas. Ah, sirrah, here's worke for the nonce ! 175 

I had a suspicion of a bad matter in my head a 

pretty whiles agoe ; but after my madams scurvy 

■ lookes here at home, her waspish perversnesse 
and loud fault-finding, then I remembred the 

x6o ycu, Q, yoo. 

164 teeret. G-D accepts Dodsley*s emendation, ferret. 
kaunttd. G'-D^ hunted. 

98 'tlUi^it^ (Act IV. 

Fas. But what ? Feare not to name him ; my 
life betweene you and danger; faith, I thinke 
'twas no base fellow. 235 

Put, Thou wilt stand betweene mee and 
harme ? 

Fas. Ud's pitty, what else ? You shalbe re- 
warded, too ; trust me. 

Put. 'Twas even no worse then her ownea4o 

Fas. Her brother Giovanni, I warrant'ee ! 

Put. Even hee, Vasques ; as brave a gentle 
men as ever kist faire lady. O, they love most 
perpetually. 245 

Fas. A brave gentleman indeed! Why 
therein I commend her choyce. — [jfside.] J[et- 
ter and better. — You are sure 'twas hec ? 

nf^ut. Sure ; and you shall see hee will not be 
long from her too. 250 

Fas. He were to blame if he would : but may 
I beleeve thee? 

Put. Beleeve mee ! Why do'st thinke I am 
a Turke or a Jew ? No, Vasques, I have knowne 
their dealings too long to belye them now. 255 

Fas. Where a|;e^ou ? there within, sirs ! 
y^ Enter Bandetti. 

Put. How now ! What are these ? 
X Fas. Youshall know presently. — Come, sirs, 

156 Wktre are you f So Q. G-D puts the interrogation mark 
after there. 

Scene m.J 'tD^ltf ^it^ 99 

\ take mee this old damnable hagge, gag her in- 
^ stantly, and put out her eyes, quickly, quickly ! 260 
\ Put. Vasques! Vasques! 

Fas, Gag her, I say ; sfoot, d'ee suffer her to 
prate ? What d'ee fumble about ? Let mee come 
to her. rie helpe your old gums, you toad-bellied 
bitch! Sirs, carry her closely into the coale-265 
house, and put out her eyes instantly ; if shee 
roares, slitt her nose. D'ee heare,bee speedy and 
sure. [Exeunt Ban.] with Putana. Why this is 
r excellent and above expectation ! Her owne 
I brother ? O, horrible ! to what a height of liberty ^^o 
\ in damnation hath the devill trayn'd our age ! 
her brother, well! there's yet but a beginning; 
I must to my lord, and tutor him better in his 
points of vengeance. Now I see how a smooth 
'• tale goes beyond a smooth tayle. — But soft lays 
\^ what thing comes next ? 

Enter Giovanni, 
Giovanni ! as I would wish : my beleefe is 
strengthned ; 'tis as firme as winter and summer. 
Giovanni. Where's my sister ? 
Vas. Troubled with a new sicknes, my lord ; ago 
she's somewhat ill. 

Gio. Tooke too much of the flesh, I beleeve. 
Vas. Troth, sir, and you, I thinke, have e'ne 
hitt it; but my vertuous lady — 

a68 [Extunt Ban.l So G-D. Q has Exit with Putana. 


1 00 'tB^ief pits ^^ ^' 

Gio. Where's shee ? 285 

, Vas. In her chamber; please you visit her; 
she is alone. \Gio, gives him money, \ Your liber- 
ality hath doubly made me your servant, and 
ever shall, ever. Exit Gio. 

\Re''\enter Soranzo, 
Sir, I am made a man; I have plyed my cue 290 
with cunning and successe. I beseech you let's 
be private. 

Soran. My ladyes brother's come ; now hee'le 
know all. 

Fas. Let him know't ; I have made some of 295 
them fast enough. How have you delt with my 
lady ? 

Soran. Gently, as thou hast counsail'd ; O, 
f my soule 

: Runs circular in sorrow for revenge : 
' But, Vasques, thou shalt know — 300 

Vas. Nay, I will know no more ; for now 
comes your turne to know : I would not talke so 
openly with you. — [Jside.] Let my young mais- 
ter take time enough, and goe at pleasure ; hee 
is sold to death, and the devill shall not ransome 305 
him. — Sir, I beseech you, your privacy. 

Soran. No conquest can gayne glory of my 
feare. [Exeunt.'\ 

[Exeunt], Q, txit. 


[SCENA PRIMA. The street before Soranzo's 


Enter Annabella above, 
Annahella, Pleasures, farwell, and all yee 
thriftlesse minutes 
Wherein false joyes have spun a weary life ! 
To these my fortunes now I take my leave. 
Thou precious Time that swiftly rid'st in poast 
Over the world to finish up the race 5 

Of my last fate, here stay thy restlesse course, 
And beare to ages that are yet unborne 
A wretched, woeful! woemans tragedy ! 
I My conscience now stands up against my lust 
\ With dispositions charectred in guilt, lo 

Enter Fryar [be/ota] . 
And tells mee I am lost : now I confesse. 
Beauty that cloathes the out-side of the face 
Is cursed if it be not cloatVd with grace. 
Here like a turtle mew'd up in a cage, 
Un-mated, I converse with ay re and walls, 15 

And descant on my vild unhappinesse. 
O, Giovanni, that hast had the spoyle 
Of thine owne vertues and my modest fame, 

IQ disfoanons. G-D, depoddons. 

102 'tCfe pit? [ActV. 

Would thou hadst beene lesse subject to those 

That luckelesse raign'd at my nativity ! 20 

would the scourge due to my blacke ofFence 
Might passe from thee, that I alone might feele 

i The torment of an uncontrouled flame ! 

Fryar. [aside\ . What's this I heare ? 

Jnna. That man, that blessed fryar. 

Who joynd in ceremoniall knot my hand 25 

To him whose wife I now am, told mee oft 

1 troad the path to death, and shewed mee how. 
But they who sleepe in lethargies of lust 

Hugge their conflision^ making heaven unjust ; 
And so did I. 

Fry. \aside'\. Here's musicke to the soule! 30 

Anna. Forgive mee, my good Genius, and 
this once 
Be helpfull to my ends : let some good man 
Passe this way, to whose trust I may commit 
This paper double lin'd with teares and blood : 
Which being granted, here I sadly vow ^5 

Repentance, and a leaving of that life 
I long have dyed in. 

Fry, Lady, heaven hath heard you, 

And hath by providence ordain'd that I 
Should be his minister for your behoofe. 

Anna. Ha, what are you ? 

Fry. Your brothers friend, the Fryar; 40 

scBNE I.] *tE^isi ^it^ 1 03 

Glad in my soule that I have liv'd to heare 
This free confession twixt your peace and you. 
What would you, or to whom ? Feare not to 

(Anna. Is heaven so bountiful! ? Then I have 
More favour then I hop'd. Here, holy man : 45 
Throzoes a letter » 

Commend mee to my brother; give him that, 
/ That letter ; bid him read it, and repent. 

Tell him that I, imprison'd in my chamber, 
' Bard of all company, even of my guardian, — 
. Who gives me cause of much suspect, — have 

time 50 

To blush at what hath past; bidd him be wise, 
And not beleeve the friendship of my lord : 
I feare much more then I can speake: good 
; The place is dangerous, and spyes are busie ; 
* I must breake off — you'le doe't ? 

Fry. Be sure I will, 55 

And fly with speede. — My blessing ever rest 
With thee, my daughter; live to dye more 
blessed ! Exit Fry, 

Anna. Thanks to the heavens, who have pro- 
longed my breath 
To this good use ! Now I can welcome death. 


104 '(E^PttB IActV. 

[SCENA SECUNDA. A room in Soranxo's 


Enter Soranza and Basques, 
, Vasques, Am I to be belee v'd now ? First marry 
a strumpet that cast her selfe away upon you but 
to laugh at your homes, to feast on your dis- 
grace, riott in your vexations, cuckold you in 
your bride-bed, waste your estate upon panders s 
and bawds — 

Soranzo. No more, I say, no more! 

Vas. A cuckold is a goodly tame beast, my 

Soran, I am resolv'd ; urge not another 
word ; lo 

My thoughts are great, and all as resolute 
As thunder. In meane time I'le cause our lady 
To decke her selfe in all her bridall robes, 
Kisse her, and fold her gently in my armes. 
Begone, — yet, heare you, are the bandetti ready 15 
To waite in ambush ? 

Vas, Good sir, trouble not your selfe about 
other busines then your owne resolution; re- 
member that time lost cannot be recal'd. 

Soran. With all the cunning words thou canst, 

invite ao 

The states of Parma to my birth-dayes feast. 

scE» m.] ^tE^ig ^it^ 1 05 


Haste to my brother rivall and his father ; 
Entreate them gently, bidd them not to fayle. 
Bee speedy and returne. 
/ Fas. Let not your pitty betray you till my com- as 
ming backe; thinkeupon incest and cuckoldry. 

Soran. Revenge is all the ambition I aspire ; 
[To that rie clime or fall ; my blood's on fire. 


[SCENA TERTIA. A room in Florio's house.] 

Enter Giovanni. 

Giovanni. Busie opinion is an idle foole 
That, as a schoole-rod, keepes a child in awe, 
Frights the unexperienc't temper of the mind : 
So did it mee, who, ere my precious sister 
Was married, thought all tast of love would dye 5 
In such a contract ; but I finde no change 
Of pleasure in this formall law of sports. 
Shee is still one to mee, and every kisse 
As sweet and as delicious as the first 
I reap't, when yet the priviledge of youth 10 

Intitled her a virgine. O, the glory 
Of two united hearts like hers and mine ! 
Let poaring booke-men dreame of other worlds ; 
My world and all of happinesse is here. 
And rde not change it for the best to come : — 15 
A life of pleasure is Elyzeum. 

I06 *<B4C|^ lAcrV. 

Ewter Frjmr. 
Father, you enter on the jubile 
Of my retyr'd delights ; now I can teU you 
The hell you oft have prompted is nou^t else 
But slavish and fond superstitious feare; 20 

And I could prove it too — 

Fryar. Thy blindnesse slayes thee : 

Looke there, 'tis writt to thee. Gwes the letter. 

Gio. From whom? 

Fry. Unrip the scales and see. 
The blood's yet seething hot that will anon 25 

Be frozen harder then congeal'd corrall. 
Why d'ee change colour, sonne? 

Gio. Fore heaven, you make 

Some petty devill factor 'twixt my love 
And your relligion-masked sorceries. 
Where had you this ? 

Fry. Thy conscience, youth, is sear'd ; 30 

Else thou wouldst stoope to warning. 

Gio. *Tis her hand, 

I know't ; and *tis all written in her blood. 
She writes I know not what. Death ? I'le not 

An armed thunder-bolt aym'd at my heart. 
Shee writes wee are discovered — pox on dreames 35 
Of lowe faint-hearted cowardise ! — discovered ? 
The devill wee are ! which way is't possible? 
Are wee growne traytours to our owne delights ? 

sciNim.] 'tE^topit? 107 

Confusion take such dotage ! 'tis but forg'd ; 
This is your peevish chattering, weake old man ! 40 

Enter Basques, 
Now, sir, what newes bring you ? 

Vasques, My lord, according to his yearely 
custome, keeping this day a feast in honour of 
his birth-day, by mee invites you thither. Your 
worthy father, with the popes reverend nuntio, 45 
and other magnifico's of Parma, have promised 
their presence; wil't please you to be of the 
number ? 

— Gio. Yes, tell them I dare come. 
' — Vas. Dare come ? 50 

Gio. So I sayd; and tell him more, I will 

Vas. These words are strange to mee. 

Gio. Say I will come. 

Vas. You will not misse? 55 

Gio, Yet more ! Pie come, sir. Are you an- 
swered ? 

Vas. So rie say. — My service to you. 

Exit Fas. 

Fry. You will not goe, I trust. 

Gio. Not goe ? for what ? 

Fry. O, doe not goe ; this feast. Tie gage my 

Enter Basques. Q prints this below the question following. 

49 tkem, G-D, him. 

56 Q hat a semicolon after come and a comma after sir. 

I08 'tE^i^PitS (AcrV. 

Is but a plot to trayne you to your ruine. 60 

Be rul'd, you sha' not goe. 

Gio. Not goe ! stood Death 

Threat ning his armies of confounding plagues 
With hoasts of dangers hot as blazing Starrs, 
I would be there. Not goe ? yes, and resolve 
/ To strike as deepe in slaughter as they all; 65 

'^ For I will goe. 

Fry, Go where thou wilt : I see 

The wildnesse of thy fate drawes to an end. 
To a bad fearefull end. I must not stay 
To know thy fall; backe to Bononia I 
With speed will haste, and shun this comming 

blowe. 70 

Parma, farwell; would I have never knowne 

Or ought of thine ! Well, young man, since no 

Can make thee safe, I leave thee to despayre. 

Exit Fry. 

[Gw.] Despaire or tortures of a thousand hells, 

AlPs one to mee ; I have set up my rest. 75 

Now, now, worke serious thoughts on banefull 

plots ; 
Be all a man, my soule ; let not the curse 
Of old prescription rent from mee the gall 
Of courage, which inrolls a glorious death. 
If I must totter like a well-growne oake, 80 

secxniv.] ^XE^ifS^it^ 109 

Some under shrtibs shall in my weighty fall 
Be crusht to splitts ; with me they all shall perish ! 


[SCENA QUARTA. Ahallin Soranzo's house.] 

Enter Soranzo, Vasques and Bandetti, 

Soranzo. You will not fayle, or shrinke in the 
attempt ? 

Vasques. I will undertake for their parts. — 
Be sure, my maisters, to be bloody enough, and 
as unmercifuU as if you were praying upon a 5 
rich booty on the very mountaines of Liguria. 
For your pardons trust to my lord ; but for re- 
ward you shall trust none but your owne pockets. 

Bandetti omnes. Wee'le make a murther. 

Soran. Here's gold; here's more; want no- 
thing. What you do 10 
Is noble, and an act of brave revenge. 
rie make yee rich, bandetti, and all free. 

Omnes. Liberty ! Liberty ! 

Vas. Hold; take every man a vizard. When 
yee are withdrawne, keepe as much silence as 15 
you can possibly. You know the watch-word ; 
till which be spoken, move not ; but when you 
heare that, rush in like a stormy flood : I neede 
not instruct yee in your owne profession. 

Omnes. No, no, no. 20 

no 'tlPtepit? [ActV. 

Vas. In, then : your ends are profit and pre- 
ferment : away ! Exeunt Bandetti, 

Soran. The guests will all come, Vasques ? 

Fas. Yes, sir. And now let me a little edge 
your resolution : you see nothing is unready to 2 
this great worke, but a great mind in you. Call 
to your remembrance your disgraces, your losse 
of honour, Hippolita's blood; and arme your 
courage in your owne wrongs ; so shall you best 
right those wrongs in vengeance, which you may 3 
truely call your owne. 

Soran. 'Tis well : the lesse I speake, the more 
I burne. 
And blood shall quench that flame. 

Vas. Now ypu begin to turne Italian. This 
beside : — when my young incest-monger comes, 3 
hee wilbe sharpe set on his old bitt : give him 
time enough, let him have your chamber and 
bed at liberty ; let my hot hare have law ere he 
be hunted to his death, that, if it be possible, hee 
may poast to hell in the very act of his damnation. 4 

Soran, It shall be so ; and see, as wee would 
Hee comes himselfe first. 

[_£]nter Giovanni. 
Welcome, my much-lov*d brother: 

17. Exeunt. Q, Exit. 

[E]ftter Giovanni. Q prints in somewhat broken type in the 
margin at the left. 

scxNi IV.] 't!Pi0 piti; III 

Now I perceive you honour me ; y'are welcome. 
But where's my father ? 

Giovanni, With the other states, 

Attending on the nuntio of the pope, . 45 

To waite upon him hither. How's my sister? 

Soran. Like a good huswife, scarcely ready yet ; 
Y*are best walke to her chamber. 

Gio. If you will. 

Soran. I must expect my honourable friends ; 
Good brother, get her forth. 

Gio. You are busie, sir. 50 

Exit Giovannu 

Vas. Even as the great devill himselfe would 
have it ! Let him goe and glut himselfe in his 
owne destruction. Harke, the nuntio is at hand : 
good sir, be ready to receive him. 

Enter Cardinally Florio^ Donado, Ricbardetto, and 


Soran. Most reverend lord, this grace hath 

made me proud, 55 

That you vouchsafe my house ; I ever rest 

Your humble servant for this noble favour. 

CardinalL You are our friend, my lord : his 


Shall understand how zealously you honour ' 

Saint Peters vicar in his substitute : 60 

Our speciall love to you. 

112 '(EPi^pit? (actv. 

Soran. Signiors, to you 

My welcome, and my ever best of thanks 
For this so memorable courtesie. 
Pleaseth your grace to walke neere ? 

Car. My lord, wee come 

To celebrate your feast with civil! mirth, 
As ancient custome teacheth : we will goe. 

Soran, Attend his grace there ! Signiors, keepe 
your way. Exeunt. 

[SCENA QUINTA. Annabella's chamber. '\ 

' * Enter Giovanni and Annabella lying on a bed, 

Giovanni. What, chang'd so soone ! Hath 
your new sprightly lord 
Found out a tricke in night-games more then 

Could know in our simplicity ? Ha ! is*t so ? 
Or does the fitt come on you to prove treacher- 
To your past vowes and oathes ? 

Annabella, Why should you jeast 

At my calamity, without all sence 
Of the approaching dangers you are in ? 

Gio. What danger's halfe so great as thy re- 
volt ? 
Thou art a faithlesse sister, else thou know'st 

64 to, G-D omits. 

Malice or any treachery beside lo 

Would stoope to my bent browcs : why I hold 

Clasp't in my fist, and could command the course 
Of times eternall motion, hadst thou beene 
One thought more steddy then an ebbing sea. 
And what ? you'lc now be honest — that's re- 

solv'd? 15 

jfnna. Brother, deare brother, know what I 

have beene. 
And know that now there 's but a dyning time 
Twixt us and our confusion : let's not waste 
These precious houres in vayne and uselesse 

Alas, these gay attyres were not put on 20 

But to some end; this suddaine solemne feast 
Was not ordayn'd to riott in expence; 
I, that have now beene chambred here alone. 
Bard of my guardian or of any else. 
Am not for nothing at an instant free'd 25 

To fresh accesse. Be not deceiv'd, my brother. 
This banquet is an harbinger of death 
To you and mee; resolve your selfe it is, 
And be prepared to welcome it. 

17 dyning time, O-D, dining-dme, which Dyce says is the read- 
ing of his quarto. A copy in the British Museum, according to D, 
gives dying time. The copies in the Boston Public library and the 
library of the Uniyenity of Illinois have dyning. 

114 'tD^itf l^its (actv. 

Gio. Well, then : 

I The schoole-men teach that all this globe of 

earth 3° 

I Shalbe consum'd to ashes in a minute. 

Anna, So I have read too. 
. Gio, But 'twere somewhat strange 

i To see the waters burne : could I beleeve 
( This might be true, I could beleeve as well 
I There might be hell or heaven. 

Anna, That's most certaine. 35 

Gio, A dreame, a dreame ! else in this other 
Wee should know one another. 

Anna, So wee shall. 

Gio, Have you heard so ? 
Anna, For certaine. 

Gio, But d'ee thinke 

That I shall see you there? — You looke on 

mee ? 
May wee kisse one another, prate or laugh, 40 

Or doe as wee doe here ? 

Anna. I know not that. 

But good, for the present what d'ee meane 
To free your selfe from danger ? Some way, thinke 
How to escapes I'me sure the guests are come. 

38-41 But d'ee thinke . ^ . doe here? Q breaks this up into 
six short lines ending with thinke , , . there . . . mee . . . an^ 
other ... laugh . . . here, 

42 good. G—Df brother, substituted for the sake of the metre. 


Scene V.] 'tU^ig plt? 1 1 5 

Gio, Looke up, looke here; what see you in 

my face ? 45 

jfnna. Distraction and a troubled counte- 
Gio. Death and a swift repining wrath : — 
yet looke ; 
What see you in mine eyes ? 
\ Jnna. Methinkes you weepe. 

Gio. I doe indeed; these are the funerall 
Shed on your grave ; these furrowed up my 

cheekes 50 

When first I lov'd and knew not how to woe. 
Faire Annabella, should I here repeate 
The story of my life, wee might loose time. 
Be record all the spirits of the ayre 
And all things else that are, that day and night, 55 
Earely and late, the tribute which my heart 
Hath paid to Annabella's sacred love 
Hath been these teares, which are her mourners 

now ! 
Never till now did nature doe her best 
To shew a matchlesse beauty to the world, 60 

Which iri an instant, ere it scarse was scene. 
The jealous Destinies require againe. 

46 countenance. G— D, conscience, Dodsley's correction. 
5 1 %ooe» G-D, woo, and so the copy at the University of 

62 require, G-D, required. Dyce says in a note that the 

ii6 '(EPl0]^itS I^^v* 

( Pray, Annabella, pray ! Since wee must part, 
Goe thou, white in thy soule, to fill a throne 
Of innocence and sanctity in heaven. , 

I Pray, pray, my sister ! 

Jnna. Then I see your drift — 

"^ Yee blessed angels, guard mee ! 

Gio. So say I ! 

■ Kisse mee ! If ever after times should heare 
j Of our fast-knit affections, though perhaps 
! The lawes of conscience and of civill use ^ 

i May justly blame us, yet when they but know 
\ Our loves, that love will wipe away that rigour, 
Which would in other incests bee abhorr'd. 
Give mee your hand : how sweetely life doth 

In these well-coloured veines ! how constantly ■) 
' These palmes doe promise health ! But I could 
With nature for this cunning flattery. 
Kisse mee againe ! — Forgive mee. 

Jnna. With my heart. 

— Gio. Farwell ! 
-* Jnna. Will you begone ? 

Gio, Be darke, bright sunne. 

And make this mid-day night, that thy guilt rayes 8 
May not behold a deed will turne their splendour 

quarto has require ; the quarto at the Uniyera^ of Illinois has 
require' d. 

More sooty then the poets faigne their Stix ! — 
z. One other kisse, my sister. 

Anna. -^^ What meanes this ? 

. Gio. To save thy fame, and kill thee in a 
/ kisse. Y Stabs her. 

Thus dye, and dye by mee, and by my hand ! 85 
Revenge is mine ; honour doth love command. 
Anna. Oh, brother, by your hand ! 
Gio. When thou art dead 

I rie give my reasons for't ; for to dispute 

With thy — even in thy death — most lovely 

Would make mee stagger to performe this act 90 
Which I most glory in. 

Anna. Forgive him, heaven— and me my 
sinnes ! Farwell. 
-" Brother unkind, unkind — mercy, great heaven ! 
— Oh! — Oh! Dyes. 

Gio. She's dead, alas, good soule ! The hap- 
lesse fruite 
That in her wombe receiv'd its life from mee 95 
Hath had from mee a cradle and a grave. 
I must not dally. This sad marriage-bed 
In all her best bore her alive and dead. 
^Soranzo, thou hast mist thy ayme in this; 
I I have prevented now thy reaching plots, 100 

1 And kil'd a love for whose each drop of blood 
\ I would have pawn'd my heart. — Fayre Anna- 
^ bella. 

1 1 8 'tO^te l^itC [Act V. 

How over-glorious art thou in thy wounds, 
Tryumphing over infamy and hate ! — 
Shrinke not,couragious hand ; stand up,, my heart, ic 
And boldly act my last and greater part ! 

Exit toitb the body. 

[SCENA SEXTA. A banqueting room in So^ 

ranzo*s houseJ^ 

A banquet. 

Enter Cardinally Florio, Donado, Soranzo, Ricbar- 
detto, Basques, and attendants ; they take their places. 

Vasques [aside to Soran."^. Remember, sir, what 
you have to do ; be wise and resolute. 

Soranzo [aside to Vas.'\ . Enough : my heart is 
fix't. — Pleaseth your grace 
To taste these course confections ; though the 

Of such set enterteyments more consists 
In custome then in cause, yet, reverend sir, 
I am still made your servant by your presence. 
Cardinall. And wee your friend. 
Soran. But where' s my brother Giovanni ? 
Enter Giovanni with a heart upon bis dagger. 
Giovanni. Here, here, Soranzo ! trim'd in reek- 
ing blood I 

4 course, G-D, coarse. 

5 enterteyments, G^D, entertaiiunents. 

Scene VI.| ^fH^ig |0it^ 1 1 9 

That tryumphs over death, proud in the spoyle 
Of love and vengeance ! Fate, or all the powers 
That guide the motions of immortall soules, 
Could not prevent mee. 

Car. What meanes this ? 15 

Florio. Sonne Giovanni! 
Soran, [aside] . Shall I be forestall'd ? 
Gio, Be not amaz'd : if your misgiving hearts 
Shrinke at an idle sight, what bloodlesse feare 
Of coward passion would have ceaz'd your 

sences, 20 

Had you beheld the rape of life and beauty 
Which I have acted ! — My sister, oh, my 
sister ! 
Flo. Ha! What of her? 
Gio. The glory of my deed 

D^rkned the mid-day sunne, made noone as 

You came to feast, my lords, with dainty fare : 25 
I came to feast too, but I dig'd for food 
In a much richer myne then gold or stone 
Of any value ballanc't ; 'tis a heart, 
) A heart, my lords, in which is mine intomb'd. 
I Looke well upon't ; d*ee know't ? 30 

Fas. What strange ridle's this ? 
Gio. 'Tis Annabella's heart, 'tis ; why d'ee 
startle ? 
I vow 'tis hers ; this daggers poynt plow'd up 


I20 ^tE'iff^iti iactv. 

Her fruitefuU wombe, and left to mee the fame 
Of a most glorious executioner. 35 

Flo. Why, mad-man, art thy selfe ? 
. Gio. Yes, father, and that times to come may 
I know 

How as my fate I honoured my revenge. 
List, father, to your eares I will yeeld up 
How much I have deserv'd to bee your sonne. 40 

Flo. What is't thou say'st ? 

Gio. Nine moones have had their changes 
Since I first throughly view'd and truely lov'd 
Your daughter and my sister. 

Flo. How ! alas, my lords, 

Hee's a frantick mad-man ! 

Gio. Father, no. 

For nine moneths space in secret I enjoy'd 45 

y Sweety Annabella's sheetes ; nine moneths I liv*d 
. A happy monarch of her heart and her. — 
! Soranzo, thou knows't this : thy^ialenxhcek^ 
Beares the confounding print of thy disgrace ; 
For her too fruitful! wombe too soone bewray'd 50 
The happy passage of our stolne delights. 
And made her mother to a child unborne. 

Car. Incestuous villaine! 

Flo. Oh, his rage belyes him. 

Gio. It does not ; 'tis the oracle of truth ; 
I vow it is so. 

43-4 How / . . . mad-man ! Q pnnts at one line. 



scxnkvi.1 'tE'ia^it^ 121 

Soran. I shall burst with fury. — . • 55 

Bring the strumpet forth ! 

Fas, I shall, sir. Exit Fas, 

Gio, Doe, sir. — Have you all no faith 

To credit yet my triumphs ? Here I sweare 
By all that you call sacred, by the love 
I bore my Annabella whiPst she liv'd, " 60 

These hands have from her bosome ript this 

E/rUr Vas. 
Is't true, or no, sir ? 

Vas. 'Tis most strangely tr>ie. 

Flo. Cursed man ! — have I liv'd to —^'Dyes. 

Car. Hold up Florio ! 

Monster of children, see what thou hast done — 
Broake thy old fathers heart. — Is none of you 65 
Dares venter on him ? 

Gio. Let'em ! Oh, my father. 

How well his death becomes him in his griefes ! 
Why this was done with courage. Now sur- 

None of our house but I, guilt in the blood 
Of a fayre sister and a haplesse father. 70 

Soran. Inhumane scorne of men, hast thou a 
T'out live thy murthers ? 

Gio. Yes, I tell thee, yes : 

63 Hold up Florio, G^D puts a comma before Florio. 



122 'tD^tefSitC lAcrV. 

For* in my fists I beare the twists of Ufe. 

Soranzo, see this heart which was tUy wives ; 

Thus I exchange it royally for thin^ \_Sialn bim,'] 

And thus, and thus ! Now brave revenge is mine. 

\_Soranzo falls, "^ 
Vas, I cannot hold any longer; you, sir, are 

you growne insolent in your butcheries ? Have 

at you ! Fight. 

Gio. Come, I am arm'd to meete thee. i 

Vas. No ! will it not be yet ? If this will not, 

another shall. Not yet ? I shall fitt you anon. — 

Vengeance ! 

Enter Bandetti. 

Gio. Welcome ! come more of you ; what e're 
you be, 
I dare your worst — [They surround and stab bim.'] \ 
Oh, I can stand no longer ! Feeble armes 
Have you so soone lost strength ? [Falls.] 

Vas. Now you are welcome, sir! — Away, 
my maisters, all is done ; shift for your selves, 
your reward is your owne ; shift for your selves. 5 
Banditti. Away, away ! Exeunt Bandetti. 

Vas. How d'ee, my lord ? See you this ? 

[Pointing to Gio.] 
How is't ? 

Soran. Dead ; but in death well pleased that 
I have liv'd 

77 you. Q has no punctuation 9ites you. 


scENK VI.] ^HUb l^iti? 1 23 

To see my wrongs reveng'd on that blacke 

devill. 95 

10, Vasques, to thy bosome let mee give 
My last of breath ; let not that lecher live. — 
Oh!— '" Dyes. 

Fas. The reward of peace and rest be with 
him, my ever dearest lord and maister ! 100 

Gio. Whose hand gave mee this wound ? 
Fas, Mine, sir; I was your first man : have you 

enough ? 
Gio. I thanke thee ; thou hast done for me 
But what I would have else done on my selfe. 
Ar't sure thy lord is dead ? 

Fas. Oh, impudent slave, 105 

As sure as I am sure to see the[e] dye ! 

Car. Thinke on thy life and end, and call 

for mercy. 
Gio. Mercy ? why I have found it in this jus- 

Car. Strive yet to cry to heaven. 
.> Gio. Oh, I bleed fast ! 

Death, thou art a guest long look't for ; I em- 
brace 1 10 
Thee and thy wounds. Oh, my last minute 

comes ! 

Where e*re I goe, let mee enjoy this grace, 
^\ Freply to view my Annabella's face. Dyes. 

Donado. Strange miracle of justice! 

124 '©fef^it? lAcrV. 

Car. Rayse up the citty ; wee shall be mur- 
dered all ! 115 

Vas. You neede not feare, you shall not 5 this 
strange taske being ended, I have paid the duty 
to the Sonne which I have vowed to the father. 

Car. Speake, wretched villaine, what incar- 
nate feind 
Hath led thee on to this ? 120 

Vas. Honesty, and pitty of my maisters 
wrongs : for know, my lord, I am by birth a 
Spaniard, brought forth my countrey in my 
youth by Lord Soranzo's father, whom whil'st 
he lived I serv'd faithfully ; since whose death 1 12s 
have beene to this man as I was to him. What 
I have done was duty, and I repent nothing, but 
that the losse of my life had not ransom'd his. 

Car. Say, fellow, know'st thou any yet un- 
Of counsell in this incest ? 130 

Vas. Yes, an old woeman, sometimes guard- 
ian to this murthered lady. 

Car. And what's become of her ? 

Vas. Within this roome shee is ; whose eyes, 
after her confession, I caus'd to be put out, but 135 
kept alive to confirme what from Giovanni's 
owne mouth you have heard. Now, my lord, 
what I have done you may judge of, and let your 
owne wisedome bee a judge in your owne reason. 

Scene VI.] 'tU^ttf pit^ 1 25 

Car. Peace ! — First this woeman, chiefe in 
these effects, 140 

My sentence is, that forthwith shee be tane 
Out of the citty, for examples sake, 
There to be burnt to ashes. 

Do. 'Tis most just. 

Car. Be it your charge, Donado, see it 

Do. I shall. 145 

Vas. What for mee ? If death, 'tis welcome : 
I have beene honest to the sonne as I was to 
the father. 

Car. Fellow, for thee, since what thou did'st 
was done 
/ Not for thy selfe, being no Italian, 150 

' Wee banish thee for ever ; to depart 

Within three dayes : in this wee doe dispense 
With grounds of reason, not of thine offence. 

Fas. *Tis well : this conquest is mine, and I 
rejoyce that a Spaniard out-went an Italian in 155 
revenge. Exit Vas. 

Car. Take up these slaughtered bodies, see 
them buried ; 
And all the gold and Jewells, or whatsoever. 
Confiscate by the canons of the church. 
We ceaze upon to the popes proper use. 160 

jRichardetto [discovers himself]. Your graces 
K pardon : thus long I liv'd disguis'd 

126 'tD^t^pitl? lAcrV. 

' To see the effect of pride and lust at once 
^ Brought both to shameful! ends. 

Car. What ! Richardetto, whom wee thought 

for dead ? - 
Do. Sir, was it you — 
'^ Rich, Your friend. 

Car, Wee shall have time 165 

To talke at large of all ; but never yet 
Incest and murther have so strangely met. 
Of one so young, so rich in natures store, 
Who could not say, 'TVj pitty sheets a whoore? 



The generall commendation deserved by the 
actors in their presentment of this tragedy may 
easily excuse such few faults as are escaped in 
the printing. A common charity may allow him 
the ability of spelling, whom a secure confidence 
assures that hee cannot ignorantly erre in the 
application of sence. 

^om to "€i^ ^it^ 

For the meaning of angle words see the Glossary, 

3. John, Earle of Peterboroug^h. This nobleman was in 
favour with both James I and Charles I. He was created Earl of 
Peterborough by letters patent of March 9, 1627-8. See article in 
Dictionary of National Biography on Henry Mordaunt, second Earl 
of Peterborough. 

3. first fruites of my leasure. This might refer to the 
termination of some piece of legal business or even to permanent 
retirement from the legal profession ; but, as Gifford says, ''so little 
of F<nrd*s personal history is known, that no allusion to any circum- 
stance peculiar to himself can be explained.** 

7, 49. Bononia. The Latin form of Bologna, the seat of the 
oldest university in Europe. 

9, I. stand to your tackling^. Defend yourself. 

9, 8-9. Wilt thou to this geere ? Do you wish to fight ? 

iz, 50. I should have worm'd you. Gifford says, 
** The allusion is to the practice of cutting what is called the worm 
from under a dog*s tongue, as a preventive of madness.** Cf. 
" Some of our preachmen are grown dog mad, there* s a worm got 
into their tongues as well as their heads. * * Familiar Letters of James 
Howell f n, p. 197, Boston, 1907. 

11, 50-51. for running madde. For fear of your running 

12, 62. unspleen'd dove. According to popular belief, the 
dove owed its gentle disposition to its lack of gall. Sir Thomas 
Browne exposed this ''vulgar error** in Pseudodoxia Epidemica, 
Bk. ni, Chap. 3. 

94, 125-6. an elder brother . . . coxcomb. Fleay 
thought these words contained " a personal allusion to Richard Per- 
kins as having acted those parts for the King*s Men, and now per- 
•onating Bergetto for the Queen*s.** The suggestion is closely 

128 iptote^ 

associated with his contention that the play was produced about 
1626, which has not met with approval. 

30, 56. Padua. The seat of the famous university founded 
in the thirteenth century, and in the sixteenth and seventeenth 
centuries particularly flourishing. Coryat tells us that he was con- 
ducted about the city by '' two English gentlemen that were then 
commorant in Padua when I was there, Mr. Moore Doctor of 
Physicke, and Mr. Willoughby a learned Student in the Univer- 
sity.** Crudities, vol. i, p. 299, Glasgow, 1 905. 

31, 5. Sanazar. Jacopo Sannazaro was bom at Naples in 
1458, and died in the same city in 1530. The work of his which 
exerted the widest influence in England was his prose romance, the 

32, 13. his briefe Encomium. GifFord quotes a line and a 
half of this poem, which may be found in Coryat* s Cruditiesy vol. i, 
page 302, Glasgow, 1905 : 

Viderat Adriads Venetam Neptanus in undis 

Stare arbem, & toto ponere jura mari : 
Nunc mihi Tarpeias, quantumvis Juppiter, arces 

Objice, & ilia tui moenia Martis, ait. 
Si peiago Tybrim praefero, urbem aspice utramque, 

Illam liomines dlcas, lianc poraisae Deot. 

Coryat says that he heard the poet had a ** hundred crownes bestowed 
upon him,** and that he wishes his friend ''Mr. Benjamin John- 
son were so well rewarded.** It is perhaps worth noting that James 
Howell sends thb hexasdch with an English translation in a letter 
to Robert Brown of the Middle Temple from Venice, August 12, 
1 62 1. The editions of 1645 and 1650 9fi well as Miss Repplier*s 
recent edition {Familiar Letters ^ 1907) differ in several points from 
Coryat*s version. Howell says : '' Sannazaro had given him by Saint 
Mark a hundred zecchins for every one of these verses, which 
amounts to 300 pounds.** Since Ford, as well as Brown, was a 
member of the Middle Temple, it is of some interest also that 
Howell announces the sending of a '* parcel of Italian books** re- 
quested by Brown. 

33, 30. foyle to thy unsated change. Must I serve as 

a dull background to give the zest of contrast to your lust ? 

36, 107. his woe. The " woe occasioned by his ^Isehood.** G. 

0otta 129 

39, 5. this borrowed shape. His disguise at physician. 
39> 13- common voyce allows hereof. What people in 
genoal think of this matter. 

41, 4I--2. Whether in arts ... to move affection* 

An inqiiiry as to the value of love-potions, charms, etc. 

42, 52. Soranzo 1 what, mine enemy 1 GifFord notes 
this passage as a case of forgetfiibiess on Ford^s part : " It is 
strange that thn should appear a new discovery to Grimaldi, when 
he had been fully apprised of it in the rencontre with Vasques in 
the first act.** As a matter of ^ct, the information that Soranzo 
has the father's word and the daughter's heart b given by Florio 
just after Grimaldi leaves the stage. Grimaldi had reason to know 
that Soranzo was his rival, but not that he was the accepted lover. 

45, 15-17. the f[r]ame and composition . . . body. 

Cf. *' The temperature of the mind follows the temperature of 
the body ; which certain axiom — says that sage prince of philoso- 
phers, Aristotle — is evermore infallible.** Honour Triumphant: 
Worki of John Ford, in, 359. 

69, 8-25. There is a place . . . lawlesse sheets. 

There seem to be some reminiscences here of Pierce Pennilesu : 
"A place of horror, stench, and darknesse, where men see meat 
but can get none, or are ever thirstie, and readie to swelt for drinke, 
yet have not the power to taste the coole streames that runne hard 
at their feet ... he that all his life time was a great fornicator, 
hath all the diseases of lust continually hanging upon him ... as 
so of the rest, as the usurer to swallow moiilten gold, the glutton 
to eate nothing but toades, and the Murtherer to bee still stabd with 
daggers, but never die.*' Works of Thomas Nashe, vol. i, p. 218, 
London, 1904. 

71,39. Aymee! *< The Italian a/ot^.*' Dyce. 

83, 76. Troppo sperar, inganna. Excessive hope is ir- 

83, 90. shee hath yet. Th^re is apparently some defect in 
the quarto here. 

90, 59. Che morte [piu] dolce che morire per 

amore ? What death more sweet than to die for love f 

90, 63. morendo in gra[z]ia [dee] morire senza 

dolore. To die in grace [? of God] is to die without grief 

130 i^te0 

92, 103-4. smother your revenee. On the ethics and 
legality of deferred revenge in seventeenth-century Italy see the 
pleadings of the lawyers in The Old Yellow Book (Publication No. 89 
of the Carnegie Institution of Washington) edited by Charles W. 
Hodell, 1908. 

95,179-181. I remembred the proverbe that 
"where hens . . . sorry houses." Under the date Feb. 5, 
1625, Howell writes : . " I remember a French proverb 

La maistn $$t misirahlt tt midiantt 

Oil la fult flus haut qut It ttq thantt. 

That honse doth every day more wretched grow 

Where the hen loader than the cock doth crow.** 

Familiar Lttttrt •/ Jamtt Hwotllf vol. i, p. 30Z. 

X08, 75. I have set up my rest. I have made up my 

I ID, 38. let my hot hare have law. By the rules of 
sport a hunted animal was allowed a certain time to get the start of 
his pursuers. 

122, 83. Vengeance. The cue for the appearance of the 
banditti agreed upon in Scene IV of thu act. 

ci^e "Btofeen f eatt 


Thb present edition follows the quarto of .1633, which is printed 
with rather more care than the quarto * Tis Pity — especially in re- 
spect to the arrangement of the lines. As in the case of * Tis Pity^ 
Dyce noticed some slight variations in the copies which he exam- 
ined, but nothing of significance. There is no evidence of a second 
edition of the quarto. The old copy has been compared with the 
texts of Weber and of GifFord and Dyce. The treatment of this 
text is identical with that described in die note on * Tts Pity. 




A Tragedy. 


By (he Ki N G's Majeffies Seruadts 

at the prioate Hoiife in the 


Side Homr. 

firiiilfidbyi/&fi>rHv6u BBSsyoM^anddseco 

fee j^ld at his Shop» nceie the CU76 10 


Trsks ii a hint in the prologue that this play was based on fact, 
but critics have been obliged to agree with Ward that the ** origin 
of the story on which it is founded is unknown.** (^ History of 
English Dramatic Literature, vol. ni, page 79.) In the Publications 
of the Modern Language Association of America, xxiv, 2, pp. 274— 
85,1 have attempted to show that the story Ford had in mind was 
the afi^r of Sidney and Penelope Devereux, who was married to 
Lord Rich and later to Mountjoy, Earl of Devonshire. Hartley Col- 
eridge is the only vrriter that I know of who has pointed in this di- 
rection. In a note at the bottom of page xlv in his introduction 
to the works of Massinger and Ford he says: <' Ford no doubt re- 
membered Moun^oy and his hapless love when he wrote the Broken 
Heart. ^* This casual suggestion — unknown to me when I worked 
out my own theory — rightly, I think, connects Lady Rich with 
the play ; but the circumstances attending her earlier love af&ir tally 
much better with the situation laid down in the Broken Heart, 





My Lord: 

The glory of a great name, acquired by a greater 
glory of action, hath in all ages livM the truest chronicle 
to his owne memory. In the practise of which argument, 
your grouth to perfection, even in youth, hath appeared 
so sincere, so un-flattering a penne-man, that posterity 5 
cannot with more delight read the merit of noble endeav- 
ours then noble endeavours merit thankes from posterity 
to be read with delight. Many nations, many eyes have 
beene witnesses of your deserts, and lov* d them : be pleas* d, 
then, with the freedome of your own nature to admit one 10 
amongrst all particularly into the list of such as honour a 
iBxrt example of nobilitie. There is a kinde of humble am- 
bition, not un-commendable, when the silence of study 
breakes forth into discourse, coveting rather encourage- 
ment then applause; yet herein censure commonly is too 15 
severe an auditor, without the moderation of an able pat- 
ronage. I have ever beene slow in courtship of greatnesse, 
not ignorant of such defects as are frequent to opinion; but 

Nature, G^D, name — apparently a mistake. 

136 Wlft CDptdtle soeotcatorir 

the justice of your in^ination to industry emboldens my 
weaknesse of confidence to rellish an experience of your 2( 
mercy, as many brava dangers have tasted of your cour- 
age. Your lordship strdyeto be knowne to the world, when 
the world knew you Imst, by voluntary but excellent at- 
tempts: like allowance] I plead of being knowne to your 
lordship, — in this low I presumption, — by tendring to aaf 
favourable entertainment a devotion offred &om a heart 
that can be as truely sensible of any least respect as ever 
professe the owner in my best, my readiest services, a lover 
of your naturall love to vertue, 

JoBn Ford. 

The Sceane, 

The speakers. names fitted to the qualities. 

Amyclas, common to the kings of Laconia. 

iTHOCLESy Honour of Lovelinessey a ^vourite. 

Orgilus, Angry, sonne to Crotolon. 

Bassanes, Vexation, a jealous nobleman. 

Armostes, an Appeaser, a counsellor of state. 

Crotolon, Noyse, another counsellor. 

pROPHiLUS, Deare, friend to Ithocles. 

Nearchus, Young Prince, Prince of Argos. 

Tecnicus, Artist, a philosopher. 

fHlEMOPHiL, Glutton } ^ .. 

L -• -.' L ^ \ two courtiers. 

Groneas, Ta'vembaunter J 

Amelus, Trusty, friend to Nearchus. 

Phulas, IFatchfull, servant to Bassanes. 

Calantha, Flo'-wer of Beauty, the Kings daughter. 
Penthea, Complaint, sister to Ithocles. 
EuPHRANEA, Joy, a maid of honour. 
Christalla CAr,Vte//) ^^^^^^^^.^ 
Philema, a Ktsse j 
Gra[u]sis, Old Beldam, overseer of Penthea. 

Persons included. 

Thrasus, Fiercenesse, fether of Ithocles. 
Aplotes, Simplicity, Orgilus so disguis'd. 

[Courtiers, Officers, Attendants, &c.] 

[HymopAil, Q, Lemophil. Gra[u'^is. Q. Gransis. 

Courtiers , . . &, Supplied by 6-D. 


Our scaene is Sparta » He whose best of art 
Hath drawne this peece cats it The Broken 

The title lends no expectation here 
Of apish laughter y or of some lame jeere 
At place or persons ; no pretended clause 
Ofjesfsfitfor a broth ell courts^ applause 
From vulgar admiration: such low songs ^ 
TurCd to unchast eares^ suit not modest tongues* 
The virgine sisters then deserved fresh bayes 
When innocence and sweetnesse crowned their layes: 
Then vices gasp^ d for breathy whose whole commerce 
Was whip'd to exile by unblushing verse. 
This law we keepe in our presentment n&w^ 
Not to take freedome more then we alhw ; 
What may be here thought a fiction^ when times 

Wanted some riper year es^ was knowne a truth: 
In which ^ if words have cloath*d the subject right j 
Ton may pertake a pitty with delight. 



Ci^e Btofeen l^eatt 


SCAENA PRIMA. [J room in Crotolon's 


Enter Crotolon and Orgilus, 

Crotolon. Dally not further; I will know the 
That speeds thee to this journey. 

Orgilus, Reason? good sir, 

I can yeeld many. 

Crot, Give me one, a good one ; 

Such I expect, and ere we part must have : 
Athens ? pray why to Athens ? You intend not 5 
To kicke against the world, turne Cynic, Stoicke, 
Or read the logicke lecture, or become 
An Areopagite, and judge in causes 
Touching the common-wealth? For, as I take it. 
The budding of your chin cannot prognosticate 10 
So grave an honour. 

Org, All this I acknowledge. 

Crot, You doe! then, son, if books and Jove 
of knowledge 

4 *''*• Q» ^''c* 

140 WIft ySvoiim i}tm (Actl 

Enflame you to this travell, here in Sparta 
You may as freely study. 

Org. 'Tis not that, sir. 

Crot. Not that, sir? As a father I command thee 15 
To acquaint me with the truth. 

Org. Thus I obey *ee : 

After so many quarrels as dissent ion, ' 
Fury, and rage had broach't in blood, and some- 
With death to such confederates as sided 
With now dead Thrasus and your selfe, my lord, 20 
Our present king, Amiclas, reconcile 
Your eager swords, and seal*d a gentle peace : 
Friends you profest your selves, which to con- 
A resolution for a lasting league 
Betwixt your families was entertained 25 

By joyning in a Hymenean bond 
Me and the faire Penthea, onely daughter 
To Thrasus. 

Crot. What of this ? 

Org. Much, much, deere sir. 

A freedome of converse, an enterchange 
Of holy and chast love, so fixt our soules 30 

In a firme grouth of union, that no time 
Can eat into the pledge: we had enjoy'd 

18 broachU. Q, brauch*t; G-D,'br<^ch*d. 
3 1 of union, Q, of holy union; but •ome copies of Q omit My. 
Sec Dycc*8 note, fVorki of John Ford^ vol. I, p. ai8. 

Son I.] tEJ^t 15roben il^eart 14 < 

The sweets our vowes expected, had not cruelty 
Prevented all those triumphs we prepared for 
By Thrasiis h^ untimely death. 

Crot. ^ *^ Most certaine. 35 

Org. From this time sprouted up that poyson- 
ous stalke 
Of aconite whose ripened fruit hath ravisht 
All health, all comfort of a happy life. 
For Ithocles, her brother, proud of youth. 
And prouder in his power, nourisht closely 40 

The memory of former discontents. 
To glory in revenge. By cunning partly, 
Partly by threats, 'a wooes at once, and forces 
His virtuous sister to admit a marriage 
With Basanes, a nobleman, in honour 45 

And riches, I confesse, beyond my fortunes. 

Crot. All this is no sound reason to importune 
My leave for thy departure. 

Org, Now it foUowes. 

Beauteous Penthea, wedded to this torture 
By an insulting brother, being secretly 50 

Compeld to yeeld her virgine freedome up 
To him who never can usurpe her heart. 
Before contracted mine, is now so yoak'd 
To a most barbarous thraldome, misery, 
Affliction, that he savors not humanity, 55 

Whose sorrow melts not into more then pitty 
In hearing but her name. 

142 tE^ broken ifmt (acti. 

CroU As how, pray ? 

Org. Bassanes, 

The man that calls her wife, considers truly 
What heaven of perfection he is lord of 
By thinking faire Penthea his : this though^ £ 

Begets a kinde of monster-love, which love 
Is nurse unto a feare so strong and servile 
As brands all dotage with a jealousie. 
All eyes who gaze upon that shrine of beauty 
He doth resolve doe homage to the miracle ; 6 
Some one, he is assur'd, may now or then. 
If opportunity but sort, prevaile : 
So much out of a selfe-unworthinesse 
His feares transport him; not that he Andes 

In her obedience, but his owne distrust. 7 

Crot. You spin out your discourse. 

Org. My griefs are violente : 

For knowing how the maid was heretofore 
Courted by me, his jealousies grow wild 
That I should steale again into her favours. 
And undermine her vertues ; which the gods 7 
Know I nor dare nor dreame of. Hence, from 

I undertake a voluntary exile. 
First, by my absence to take off the cares 
Of jealous Bassanes; but chiefly, sir. 
To free Penthea from a hell on earth ; 8 

scMaLj tD^e ^roben l^eart 143 

Lastly, to lose the memory of something 
Her presence makes to live in me afresh. 

Crot. Enough,myOrgilus, enough. To Athens 
I give a full consent. — Alas, good lady ! — 
Wee shall heare from thee often ? 

Org. Often. 

Crot. See, 85 

Thy sister comes to give a farewell. 

Enter Eupbrania» 

Euphranea, Brother ! 

Org. Euphrania, thus upon thy cheekes I 
A brothers kisse ; more carefuU of thine honour. 
Thy health, and thy well-doing, then my life. 
Before we part, in presence of our father, 90 

I must preferre a suit to 'ee. 

Euphr. You may stile it. 

My brother, a command. 

Org. That you will promise 

To passe never to any man, how ever 
Worthy, your faith, till, with our fathers leave, 
I give a free consent. 

Crot. An easie motion ! 95 

I*le promise for her, Orgilus. 

Org. Your pardon; 

Euphrania's oath must yeeld me satisfaction. 

93 To paste nentr, G-D, Never to pass. 

94 Worthy, Q prints at end of preceding line. 

144 tliHit HBvolim ^tdxt (/^ctl 

Euphr. By Vesta's sacred fires I sweare. 

Crot. And I, 

By great Apollo's beames, joyne in the vow, 
Not without thy allowance to bestow her loo 

On any living. 

Org. Deere Euphrania, 

Mistake me not: farre, farre 'tis from my 

As farre from any wish of mine, to hinder 
Preferment to an honourable bed 
Or fitting fortune; thou art young and hand- 
some ; 105 
And 'twere injustice, — more, a tyrannie, — 
Not to advance thy merit. Trust me, sister. 
It shall be my first care to see thee match'd 
As may become thy choyce, and our contents : 
I have your oath. 

Euphr. You have : but meane you, 

brother, no 

To leave us as you say ? 

Crot. I, I, Euphrania : 

He has just grounds direct him. I will prove 
A father and a brother to thee. 

Euphr. Heaven 

Does looke into the secrets of all hearts : 
Gods, you have mercy with 'ee, else — 

Crot. Doubt nothing; 115 

Thy brother will returne in safety to us. 

Scene h.) ttOft ^robm iftm 1 45 

Org. Soules sunke in sorrowes never are with- 
out 'em ; 
They change fresh ayres, but beare their griefes 
about 'em. Exeunt omnes. 

SCAENE 2. \J room in the palaceJ] 

Flourish. Enter Amyclas the King, Armostes, Pro- 
pbiluSf and attendants. 

Amyclas. The Spartane gods are gracious ; our 
Shall bend before their altars, and perfume 
Their temples with abundant sacrifice. 
See, lords, Amyclas, your old King, is entring 
Into his youth againe ! I shall shake oiF 5 

This silver badge of age, and change this snow 
For haires as gay as are Apollo's lockes ; 
Our heart leaps in new vigour. 

Armostes. May old time 

Run backe to double your long life, great sir ! 

Amy. It will, it must, Armostes: thy bold 
nephew, lo 

Death-braving Ithocles, brings to our gates 
Triumphs and peace upon his conquering sword. 
Laconia is a monarchy at length ; 
Hath in this latter warre trod underfoot 
Messenes pride ; Messene bowes her necke 15 

To Lacedemons royalty. O, 'twas 

146 tE^ift broken i}tm [act l 

A glorious victory, and doth deserve 
More then a chronicle ; a temple, lords, 
A temple to the name of Ithocles ! 
Where didst thou leave him, Prophilus ? 

Prophilus, At Pephon, 20 

Most gracious soveraigne 5 twenty of the noblest 
Of the Messenians there attend your pleasure 
For such conditions as you shall propose, 
In setling peace, and liberty of life. 

Jmy, When comes your friend the general ? 

Proph. He promis'd 25 

To follow with all speed convenient. 

Snter Crotolon, Calantba, Cbrystaila, Pbilema and 


Amy. Our daughter ! — Deere Calantha, the 
happy newes. 
The conquest of Messene, hath already 
Enrich'd thy knowledge. 

Calantha. With the circumstance 

And manner of the fight, related faithfully 30 

By Prophilus himselfe ; but, pray, sir, tell me. 
How doth the youthfuU general! demeane 
His actions in these fortunes ? 

Proph. Excellent princesse. 

Your owne faire eyes may soone report a truth 
Unto your judgement, with what moderation, 35 
Calmenesse of nature, measure, bounds and limits 
Of thankefulnesse and joy, 'a doth digest 

sctKE li.) wift broken i^tm 147 

Such amplitude of his successe as would 
In others, moulded of a spirit lesse cleare. 
Advance 'em to comparison with heaven. 40 

But Ithocles — 

CaL Your friend — 

Proph. He is so, madam, 

In which the period of my fate consists : 
He in this firmament of honour, stands 
Like a starre fixt, not mov'd with any thunder 
Of popular applause or sudden lightning 45 

Of selfe-opinion. He hath serv'd his country. 
And thinks 'twas but his duty. 

Crot. You describe 

A miracle of man. 

Jmy. Such, Crotolon, 

On forfeit of a kings word, thou wilt finde him. 
Harke, warning of his comming ! all attend him. 50 

Flourish* Enter Ithocles , Hemophilic and Groneas ; 
the rest of the lords ushering him in. 
Amy. Returne into these armes, thy home, thy 
Delight of Sparta, treasure of my bosome. 
Mine owne, owne Ithocles ! 

Ithocles. Your humblest subject. 

Armo. Proud of the blood I claime an interest 
As brother to thy mother, I embrace thee 55 

Right noble nephew. 

148 tEPlie IBroben It^eart [actl 

Itho, Sir, your love's too partiall. 

Crot, Our country speakes by me, who by thy 
Wisdome, and service, shares in this great action ; 
Returning thee, in part of thy due merits, 
A gcnerall welcom. 

Itho. You exceed in bounty. 60 

CaL Chrystalla, Philena, the chaplet ! — Itho- 
Upon the wings of fame the singular 
And chosen fortune of an high attempt 
Is borne so past the view of common sight, 
That I my selfe with mine owne hands have 

wrought, 65 

To crowne thy temples, this provinciall garland; 
Accept, weare, and enjoy it, as our gift 
Deserv'd, not purchas'd. 

Itho. Y'are a royall mayd. 

Jmy. Shee is in all our daughter. 

Itho. Let me blush. 

Acknowledging how poorely I have serv'd, 70 

What nothings I have done, compar'd with th' 

Heap'd on the issue of a willing minde ; 
In that lay mine ability, that onely. 
For who is he so sluggish from his birth. 
So little worthy of a name or country, 75 

That owes not out of gratitude for life. 

scm n.] tiOtt IBroben l^^earc 149 

A debt of service, in what kinde soever 
Safety or counsaile of the common-wealth 
Requires for paiment ? 

CaL 'A speaks truth. 

Itho. Whom heaven 

Is pleas'd to stile victorious, there to such 80 

Applause runs madding, like the drunken priests 
In Bacchus sacrifices, without reason 
Voycing the leader-on a demi-god : 
When as, indeed, each common souldiers blood 
Drops downe as current coyne in that hard pur- 
chase 85 
As his whose much more delicate condition 
Hath suckt the milke of ease. Judgement com- 
But resolution executes : I use not, 
Before this royall presence, these fit sleights 
As in contempt of such as can direct : 90 
My speech hath other end : not to attribute 
All praise to one mans fortune, which is 

By many hands. — For instance, here is Pro- 

A gentleman — I cannot flatter truth — 
Of much desert ; and, though in other ranke, 95 
Both Hemophil and Groneas were not missing 
To wish their countries peace j for, in a word, 

79 *jS. Herci as elsewhere, G-D prints He. 

150 tin^ ISrdttit i^^eare [acil 

All there did strive their best, and 't was our 

• Amy. Courtiers turne souldiers ? — Wc vouch- 
safe our hand : 
Observe your great example. 

HemophiL With all diligence, ic 

Groneas, Obsequiously and hourely. 

Jmy, Some repose 

After these toyles [is] needfuU; we must thinke 

Conditions for the conquered ; they expect 'em. 
On, — come my Ithocles. 

Euphr. Sir, with your favour, 

I need not a supporter. 

Proph, Fate instructs me. ic 

Exeunt. Manent Hemopbill, Groneas, 
Christalla et Pbilema. 
Hemopbill stayes Cbrystaila; Groneas, Pbilema, 

Christalla. With me ? 

Pbilema. Indeed I dare not stay. 

Hem. Sweet lady, 

Souldiers are blunt, — your lip. 

Chris. Fye, this is nidenesse ; 

You went not hence such creatures. 

Gron. Spirit of valour 

Is of a mounting nature. 

Phil. It appeares so : 

I02 [is] . Q, are. 

Scene n.] tD^ IBrObett ^tStt 151 

Pray, in earnest, how many men apeece no 

Have you two beene the death of? 

Gron. Faith, not many-; 

We were composed of mercy. 

Hem. For our daring 

You heard the generals approbation 
Before the king. 

Cbris, You wish'd your countries peace : 
That shew'd your charity; where are your 

spoyles, 115 

Such as the souldier fights for ? 

PhiL They are comming. 

Chris, By the next carrier, are they not ? 

Gron. Sweet Philena^ 

When I was in the thickest of mine enemies. 
Slashing ofF one mans head, anothers nose, 
Anothers armes and legs — 

Pbil, And altogether. 120 

Gron. Then would I with a sigh remember 
And cry, " Deare Philena, *tis for thy sake 
I doe these deeds of wonder ! " — dost not love me 
With all diy heart now ? 

Pbil. Now as heretofore. 

I have not put my love to use; the principall 125 
Will hardly yeeld an interest. 

no Pray J iu tariustf how. G-D, In eamett, pn^, how. 
Gf Pkay [now] in earnett, how. 

152 tlOft Watam mtmt l^aL 

GrvH. Bj MaiSy 

Fk marry thcc ! 

PbiL By Vulcan, jr*are forswome. 

Except my mind doe alter strai^iely. 

Gran. One word. 

Chris. You lye beyond all modesty, — for- 
beare me. 

Hem. rie make thee mistresse of a city; 
'tis 13 

Mine owne by conquest. 

Chris. By petition ; sue for*t 

In forma pauperis. — City ! kennell. — Gallants ! 
Off with your feathers, put on aprons, gallants; 
Learne to reele, thrum, or trim a ladies dog. 
And be good quiet soules of peace, hobgoblins ! 13 

Hem. Christalla! 

Chris. Practise to drill hogs, in hope 

To share in the acorns. Souldiers ! Corn-cutters, 
But not so valiant; they oft-times draw blood. 
Which you durst never doe. When you have 

More wit, or more civility, wee'll ranke 'ee i^ 
Tth list of men : till then, brave things at armes. 
Dare not to speake to us, — most potent 
Groneas — 

Phil. And Hemophill the hardy, — at your 

133 ftatktn, Q, £itlien ; G^D, ftatlien. 

scENx m.] tltj^e ^roben iftm 1 5 3 

Gron, They scorne us as they did before we 

Hem. Hang 'em, let us scorne them and be 

revcng'd. Exeunt Cbru et Pbilema. 145 

Gron. Shall we ? 

Hem. We will ; and when we sleight 

them thus, 
Instead of following them, they'll follow us. 
It is a womans nature. 

Gron. 'Tis a scurvy one. 

Exeunt omnes. 

SCENE 3. [The gardens of the palace. J grove."] 

Enter Tecnieus a philosopher, and Orgilus disguised like 

a scholler of his. 

Tecnicus. Tempt not the stars, young man, 

thou canst not play 
With the severity of fate : this change 
Of habit and disguise in outward view. 
Hides not the secrets of thy soule within thee. 
From their quicke-piercing eyes, which dive at 

all times 5 

Downe to thy thoughts : in thy aspect I note 
A consequence of danger. 

Orgilus. Give me leave. 

Grave Tecnicus, without fore-dooming destiny. 
Under thy roofe to ease my silent griefes 
By applying to my hidden wounds the balme 10 

1 54 tD^e IBroben ^^tm [aci l 

Of thy oraculous lectures : if my fortune 
Run such a crooked by-way as to wrest 
My steps to mine, yet thy learned precepts 
Shall call me backe, and set my footings streight: 
I will not court the world. 

Teen. Ah, Orgilus, is 

Neglects in young men of delights and life 
Run often to extremities ; they care not 
For harmes to others who contemne their owne. 

Org. But I, most learned artist, am not so 
At ods with nature that I grutch the thrift 20 

Of any true deservcr; nor doth malice 
Of present hopes so checke them with despaire. 
As that I yeeld to thought of more affliction 
Then what is incident to frailty : wherefore 
Impute not this retired course of living 15 

Some little time to any other cause 
Then what I justly render : the information 
Of an unsetled minde; as the effect 
Must clearely witnesse. 

Teen. Spirit of truth inspire thee ! 

On these conditions I conceale thy change, 30 
And willingly admit thee for an auditor, 
rie to my study. 

Org. I to contemplations: 

In these delightfuU walkes. [^Exit. Tecn.'\ — 

Thus metamorphiz'd, 

scsMB m.] tEPlie Wtohm l^eart 155 

I may without suspition hearken after 
Pentheas usage and Euphranias faith. 35 

Love ! Thou art full of mystery : the deities 
Themselves are not secure in searching out 
The secrets of those flames which hidden wast 
A breast made tributary to the lawes 
Of beauty. Physicke yet hath never found 40 

A remedy to cure a lovers wound. 
Ha ! who are those that crosse yon private waike 
Into the shadowing grove in amorous foldings? 
Propbilus passetb over, supporting Eupbrania, 
and whispering. 

My sister ! O, my sister ! 'tis Euphrania 

With Prophilus : supported too ; I would 45 

It were an apparition ! Prophilus ^ 

Is Ithocles his friend ; it strangely pusles me. 

Againe! Helpeme^mybooke; this schoUers habit 

Must stand my privilege : my mind is busie ; 

Mine eyes and eares are open. 

Walke by, reading. 
Enter againe Prophilus and Euphrania, 

Prophilus. Doe not wast 50 

The span of this stolne time, lent by the gods 
For precious use, in nicenesse ! Bright Euphra- 

Should I repeat old vowes, or study new, 
For purchase of beleefe to my desires — 

Org. \aside\ Desires? 

1 5 6 Wl}t IBroben ^tm [act i. 

Proph. My service, my integrity — 55 

Org, [aside] . That 's better. 

Proph, I should but repeat a lesson 

Oft conn'd without a prompter but thine eyes : 
My love is honourable — 

Org, [aside']. So was mine 

To my rcnthea: chastly honourable. 

Proph, Nor wants there more addition to my 
wish 60 

Of happinesse then having thee a wife ; 
Already sure of Ithocles, a friend 
Firme and un-alterable. 

Org, [aside]. But a brother 

More crucll then the grave. 

Euphranea, What can you looke for 

In answer to your noble protestations, 65 

From an unskilfuU mayd, but language suited 
To a divided minde ? 

Org, [aside] , Hold out, Euphranea ! 

Euphr, Know, Prophilus, I never under- 
From the first time you mentioned worthy love. 
Your merit, meanes, or person. It had beene 7° 
A fault of judgement in me, and a dulnesse 
In my affections, not to weigh and thanke 
My better starres that offered me the grace 
Of so much blisfulnesse. For, to speake truth. 
The law of my desires kept equall pace 75 

scxMB m.] tE^fft IBroben l^eart 157 

With yours, nor have I left that resolution ; 
But onely, in a word, what-ever choyce 
Lives nearest in my heart must first procure 
Consent both from my father and my brother, 
E*re he can owne me his. 

Org. [aside]. She is forsworne else. 80 

Proph, Leave me that taske. 

Euphr. My brother, e're he parted 

To Athens, had my oath. 

Org. [aside] . Yes, yes, *a had sure. 

Proph. I doubt not, with the meanes the court 
But to prevaile at pleasure. 

Org. [aside] . Very likely ! 

Proph. Meane time, best, dearest, I may build 
my hopes 85 

On the foundation of thy constant sufFrance 
In any opposition. 

Euphr. Death shall sooner 

Divorce life and the joyes I have in living 
Then my chast vowes from truth. 

Proph. On thy faire hand 

I seale the like. 

Org. [aside]. There is no faith in woman — 90 
Passion, O, be contain'd ! my very heart-strings 
Are on the tenters. 

Euphr. Sir, we are over-heard, 

92 <&>. G-D omits ; aee note in vol. i, p. 232. 

158 WIft IBnd^m l^^eait [act l 

Cupid protect us ! 'twas a stirring, sir. 
Of some one ncere. 

Proph. Your feares are needlesse, lady ; 

None have accesse into these private pleasures 95 
Except some neere in court, or bosome student 
From Tecnicus his oratory, granted 
By special! favour lately from the king 
Unto the grave philosopher. 

Euphr. Me thinkes 

I heare one talking to himselfe : I see him. loo 

Proph, 'Tis a poore schoUer, as I told you, 

Org. \as'tde^ . I am discovered. — \As if think- 
ing aloud.'] Say it : is it possible 
With a smooth tongue, a leering countenance. 
Flattery, or force of reason — I come t'ee, sir — 
To turne or to appease the raging sea ? 105 

Answer to that. — Your art ! what art ? to catch 
And hold fast in a net the sunnes small atomes ? 
No, no ; they'll out, they'll out : ye may as easily 
Out run a cloud driven by a northerne blast. 
As fiddle faddle so ! Peace, or speake sense. no 

Euphr. Call you this thing a schoUer? 'las 
hee's lunaticke. 

Proph. Observe him, sweet; 'tis but his rec- 

Org. But will you heare a little ! You are so 

scm«m.] tc^e mstclktn l&eatt 159 

You keepe no rule in argument. Philosophy 
Workes not upon impossibilities, 115 

But naturall conclusions. — Mew ! — absurd ! 
The metaphysicks are but speculations 
Of the celestiall bodies, or such accidents 
As not mixt perfectly, in the ayre ingendred, 
Appeare to us unnaturall ; that's all. 120 

Prove it ; — yet, with a reverence to your gravity, 
I'le baulke illiterate sawcinesse, submitting 
My sole opinion to the touch of writers. 

Proph. Now let us fall in with him. 

Org. Ha, ha, ha ! 

These apish boyes, when they but tast the 

grammates 125 

And principals of theory, imagine 
They can oppose their teachers. Confidence 
Leads many into errors. 

Proph. By your leave, sir. 

Euphr* Are you a schoUer, friend ? 

Org. I am, gay creature. 

With pardon of your deities, a mushrome 130 

On whom the dew of heaven drops now and 

The sunne shines on me too, I thanke his 

beames ! 
Sometime I feele their warmth; and eat, and 

Proph. Does Tecnicus read to thee ? 

i6o tEPlie IBroben l^eart [actl 

Org. Yes, forsooth, 

He is my master surely ; yonder dore ,3 

Opens upon his study. 

Proph. Happy creatures ! 

Such people toyle not, sweet, in heats of state. 
Nor sinke in thawes of greatnesse : their affec- 
Keepe order with the limits of their modesty ; 
Their love is love of vertue. — What's thy 
name? ,4, 

Org. Aplotes, sumptuous master, a poore 

Euphr. Dost thou want any thing ? 
Org. Books, Venus, books. 

Proph. Lady, a new conceit comes in my 
And most availeable for both our comforts. 
Euphr. My lord, — 

Proph. Whiles I endevour to deserve 14 

Your fathers blessing to our loves, this scholler 
May daily at some certaine houres attend. 
What notice I can write of my successe. 
Here in this grove, and give it to your hands : 
The like from you tome: so can we never, 15 
Barr'd of our mutuall speech, want sure intelli- 
gence ; 
And thus our hearts may talke when our tongues 

knon m.] wift IBroben ^tm i6i 

Euphr. Occasion is most favourable; use it. 

Proph. Aplotes, wilt thou wait us twice a day, » 
\t nine i' th morning and at foure at night, 155 
Here in this bower, to convey such letters 
\s each shall send to other ? Doe it willingly, 
Safely, and secretly, and I will furnish 
rhy study, or what else thou canst desire. 

Org. Jove, make me thankfuU, thankful!, I 
beseech thee, 160 

i^ropitious Jove ! I will prove sure and trusty : 
if ou will not faile me bookes ? 

Proph, Nor ought besides 

rhy heart can wish. This ladies name's £u- 

nine Prophilus. 

Org. I have a pretty memory : 

!t must prove my best friend. — I will not misse 165 
Dne minute of the houres appointed. 

Proph. Write 

The bookes thou wouldst have brought thee in 

a note, 
Dr take thy selfe some money. 

Org. No, no money: 

Honey to schoUers is a spirit invisible, 
iVc dare not finger it ; or bookes, or nothing. 170 

Proph. Bookes of what sort thou wilt : doe 
not forget 
Dur names. 

i62 lOn Vntam ^last (actl 

Org. I warrant 'ee, I warrant 'ee. 

Proph. Smile, Hymen, on the grouth of our 
Wee'll feed thy torches with etemall fires! 

Exeunt, wuaut Org. 
Org. Put out thy torches. Hymen, or their 
light 175 

Shall meet a darkenesse of etemall ni^t. 
Inspire me. Mercury, with swift deceits; 
Ingenious fate has lept into mine armes. 
Beyond the compasse of my braine. — Mortal- 
Creeps on the dung of earth, and cannot reach i8o 
The riddles which are purposed by the gods. 
Great arts best write themselves in their owne 

stories ; 
They dye too basely who out-live their glories. 



[v/ room in Bassanes* house."] 

Enter Bassanes and P hulas. 
Bassanes. I'le have that window next the 
street dam'd up ; 
It gives too full a prospect to temptation. 
And courts a gazers glances : there's a lust 
Committed by the eye, that sweats and travels. 
Plots, wakes, contrives, till the deformed bear- 

whelpe 5 

Adultery be lick'd into the act. 
The very act : that light shall be dam'd up ; 
D'ee heare, sir? 

Phulas, I doe heare, my lord ; a mason 

Shall be provided suddenly. 

Bass. Some rogue. 

Some rogue of your confederacy, — factor i© 

For slaves and strumpets, — to convey close 

From this spruce springall and the tother young- 
That gawdy eare-wrig, or my lord your patron. 
Whose pensioner you are. — I'le teare thy throat 

Sonne of a cat, ill-looking hounds-head ; rip Up 15 

1 64 tD^e IBrokm ^tm [act a 

Thy ulcerous maw, if I but scent a paper, 
A scroll, but halfe as big as what can cover 
A wart upon thy nose, a spot, a pimple. 
Directed to my lady : it may prove 
A mysticall preparative to lewdnesse. 20 

Phul. Care shall be had. — I will tume every 

About me to an eye. — {Jside."] Here *s a sweet 

Bass. The city houswives, cunning in the 

Of chamber-merchandise, set all at price 
By whole-sale ; yet they wipe their mouthes, and 

simper, 25 

Cull, kisse, and cry ^^ Sweet-hart,'' and stroake 

the head 
Which they have branch'd; and all is well 

againe ! 
Dull clods of dirt, who dare not feele the rubs 
Stucke on the fore-heads ? 

PhuL 'Tis a villanous world, 

One cannot hold his owne in*t. 

Bass. Dames at court, 30 

Who flaunt in riots, runne another byas : 
Their pleasure heaves the patient asse that suf- 
Up on the stilts of office, titles, incomes; 
Promotion justifies the shame, and sues for't. 

scsm L] tSUft IBrokm iftvtt 165 

Poore honour! thou art stabM and bleed'st to 

death 35 

By such unlawful! hire. The country mistresse 
Is yet more wary, and in blushes hides 
What ever trespasse drawes her troth to guilt ; 
But all are false. On this truth I am bold, 
No woman but can fall, and doth, or would — 40 
Now for the newest newes about the citie ; 
What blab the voyces, sirrha ? 

Phul. O, my lord. 

The rarest, quaintest, strangest, tickling newes 
That ever — 

Bass. Hey da ! up and ride me, rascall ! 
What is 't ? 

PhuL Forsooth, they say, the king has mew'd 45 
All his gray beard, instead of which is budded 
Another of a pure carnation colour. 
Speckled with greene and russet. 

Bass. Ignorant blocke ! 

PhuL Yes truly; and 'tis talkt about the 
That since Lord Ithocles came home, the lyons 50 
Never left roaring, at which noyse the beares 
Have danc'd their very hearts out. 

Bass. Dance out thine too. 

PhuL Besides, Lord Orgilus is fled to Athens 
Upon a fiery dragon, and 'tis thought 
A* never can returne. 

i66 W^ IBrokm t^eart (act n. 

Bass. Grant it, Apollo ! 

PhuL Moreover, please your lordship, 'tis 
For certaine, that who ever is found jealous 
Without apparant proofe that's wife is wanton 
Shall be divorc'd : but this is but she-newes ; 
I had it from a midwife. I have more yet. 
Bass. Anticke, no more ! Ideots and stupid 
Grate my calamities. Why to be faire 
Should yeeld presumption of a faulty soule ? 
Looke to the doores. 

PhuL [^aside"]' The home of plenty crest him. 

Exit Phul. 
Bass. Swormes of confusion huddle in my 
In rare distemper. Beauty ! O, it is 
An unmatcht blessing or a horrid curse. 

Enter Penthea and Grausis, an old lady. 
Shee comes, she comes ! so shoots the morning 

Spangled with pearles of transparent dew. 
The way to poverty is to be rich; 
As I in her am wealthy, but for her 
In all contents a bankrupt. — Lov'd Penthea ! 
How fares my hearts best joy ? 

Grausis. Insooth, not well, 

She is so over-sad. 

sciOT L] Wlit HBroten l^eart 167 

Bass. Leave chattering, mag-pyc. — 

Thy brother is return'd, sweet, safe and hon- 

our'd 75 

With a triumphant victory ; thou shalt visit him: 
We will to court, where, if it be thy pleasure. 
Thou shalt appeare in such a ravishing lustre 
Of jewels above value, that the dames 
Who brave it there, in rage to be out-shin'd, 80 
Shall hide them in their closets, and unseene 
Fret in their teares; whiles every wondring eye 
Shall crave none other brightnesse but thy pres- 
Choose thine owne recreations ; be a queene 
Of what delights thou fanciest best, what com- 
pany, 85 
What place, what times ; doe any thing, doe all 

Youth can command ; so thou wilt chase these 

From the pure firmament of thy faire lookes. 
Grau. Now 'tis well said, my lord. What, 
lady ! laugh. 
Be merry ; time is precious. 

Bass. Furies whip thee ! 90 

Penthea. Alas, my lord, this language to your 
Sounds as would musicke to the deafe ; I need 
No braveries nor cost of art to draw 

i68 Wlft HBrokm It^eatt i^ctil 

The whitenesse of my name into ofFence ; 

Let such, if any such there are, who covet 95 

A curiosity of admiration. 

By laying out their plenty to full view, 

Appeare in gawdy out-sides ; my attires 

Shall suit the inward fashion of my minde ; 

From which, if your opinion nobly plac'd, 100 

Change not the livory your words bestow. 

My fortunes with my hopes are at the highest. 

Bass. This house, me thinkes, stands some- 
what too much inward. 
It is too melancholy ; wee' 11 remove 
Nearer the court : or what thinks my Penthea 105 
Of the delightfull island we command ? 
Rule me as thou canst wish. ' 

Pen. I am no mistresse; 

Whither you please, I must attend ; all wayes 
Are alike pleasant to me. 

Grau. Island ! prison ; 

A prison is as gay some : wee'U no islands : no 

Marry, out upon 'em ! whom shall we see there ? 
Sea-guls and porpiseis and water-rats 
And crabs and mewes and dogfish ! goodly geere 
For a young ladies dealing, or an old ones ! 
On no termes islands ; I'le be stcw'd first. 

Bass, [aside to Grau.']. Grausis,n5 

You are a jugling bawd. — This sadnesse, sweet- 

s«N« L] Wlit )15roten ^tatt 1 69 

Becomes not youthful! blood. — \_jfside to GrauJJ 

rie have you pounded. — 
For my sake put on a more chearefuU mirth ; 
Thou't marre thy cheekes, and make me old in 

griefes. — 
{ Aside to GrauJj Damnable bitch-foxe ! 

Grau. I am thicke of hearing 120 

Still, when the wind blowes southerly. What 

If your fresh lady breed young bones, my lord ? 
Wood not a chopping boy d'ee good at heart ? 
But, as you said — 

Bass, [aside to Grau.^. Tie spit thee on a 
Or chop thee into collops ! 

Grau. Pray, speake louder. 125 

Sure, sure, the wind blowes south still. 

Pen. Thou prat'st madly. 

Bass. 'Tis very hot ; I sweat extreamely . — 

\Re-'\ Enter Phulas. 

Phul. A heard of lords, sir. 

Bass. Ha ? 

Phul. A flock of ladies. 

Bass. Where? 

Phul. Shoalds of horses. 

Bass. Peasant, how ? 

Phul. Caroches 

In drifts — th* one enter, th* other stand with- 
out, sir. 13 
And now I vanish. Exif Pbulas. 

Enter Propbilus, Hemophil^ Groneas, Cbristalla and 


Prophtlus, Noble Bassanes ! 

Bass, Most welcome Prophilus, ladies, gen- 
tlemen ; 
To all my heart is open ; you all honour me, — 
[Astde.'\ A tympany swels in my head al- 
ready, — 
Honour me bountifully. — [^Aside.'\ How they 

flutter, 13 

Wagtailes and jayes together ! 

Proph, From your brother. 

By virtue of your love to him, I require 
Your instant presence, fairest. 

Pen, He is well, sir ? 

Proph, The gods preserve him ever : yet, deare 
I finde some alteration in him lately, i^ 

Since his returne to Sparta. — My good lord, 
I pray use no delay. 

Bass, We had not needed 

An invitation, if his sisters health 
Had not fallen into question. — Hast, Penthea, 
Slacke not a minute : lead the way,good Prophilus; 14 
rie follow step by step. 

scENi n.) tEHit HBroten l^eart 1 7 1 

Proph, Your arme, faire madam. 

Exeunt omnes sed Bass, ^ Grau, 

Bass. One word with your old bawdship : th' 
hadst bin better 
Raild at the sinnes thou worshipst then have 

My will : Tie use thee cursedly. 

Grau, You dote, 

You are beside yourselfe. A politician 150 

In jealousie ? No, y'are too grosse, too vulgar. 
Pish, teach not me my trade ; I know my cue : 
My crossing you sinks me into her trust. 
By which I shall know all: my trade's a sure one. 

Bass, Forgive me, Grausis, twas consideration 155 
I rellisht not ; but have a care now. 

Grau, Feare not, 

I am no new-come-too't. 

Bass, Thy life's upon it. 

And so is mine. My agonies are infinite. 

Exeunt omnes, 

SCAENE 2. [The palace, Ithocles' apartment, '\ 

Enter Itbocles alone, 
Ithocles, Ambition! 'tis of vipers breed; it 
A passage through the wombe that gave it mo- 

148 sinnes, G^D, saintB. 155 Grausis, Q, Granus. 

172 WlftWtoim^tm (Ac^a 

Ambition, like a seeled dove, mounts upward, 

Higher and higher still to pearch on clouds. 

But tumbles headlong downe with heavier ruine. 5 

So squibs and crackers flye into the ayre. 

Then, onely breaking with a noyse, they vanish 

In stench and smoke. Morality appli'd 

To timely practice keeps the soule in tune. 

At whose sweet musicke all our actions dance : 10 

But this is forme of books and schoole-tradi- 

It physicks not the sicknesse of a minde 
Broken with griefes : strong feavers are not eas'd 
With counsell, but with best receipts and 

meanes : 
Meanes, speedy meanes and certaine ; that's the 

cure. 15 

Enter Armostes and Crotoion, 

Jrmostes, You sticke, Lord Crotolon, upon a 
Too nice and too unnecessary. Prophilus 
Is every way desertfulL I am confident 
Your wisdome is too ripe to need instruction 
From your sonnes tutillage. 

Crotolon. Yet not so ripe, 10 

My Lord Armostes, that it dares to dote 
Upon the painted meat of smooth perswasion. 
Which tempts me to a breach of faith. 

Itho. Not yet 

scDfE n J tCi^e HBroben ^tm 173 

Resolv'd, my lord ? Why, if your sonnes consent 
Be so availeable, wee'U write to Athens a5 

For his repaire to Sparta. The kings hand 
Will joyne with our desires; he has beene 
mov'd too't. 

Jrmo. Yes, and the king himselfe importun'd 
For a dispatch. 

Crot. Kings may command ; their wils 

Are lawes not to be questioned. 

Itho, By this marriage 30 

You knit an union so devout, so hearty, 
Betweene your loves to me and mine to yours. 
As if mine owne blood had an interest in it ; 
For Prophilus is mine, and I am his. 

Crot. My lord, my lord ! — 

Ith. What, good sir ? speak your thoght. 35 

Crot. Had this sincerity beene reall once. 
My Orgilus had not beene now un-wiv'd. 
Nor your lost sister buried in a bride-bed : 
Your unckle here, Armostes, knowes this truth ; 
For had your father Thrasus liv'd, — but peace 40 
Dwell in his grave ! I have done. 

j/rmo. Y'are bold and bitter. 

Itho. 'A presses home the injury; it smarts: 
No reprehensions, uncle, I deserve *em. 
Yet, gentle sir, consider what the heat 
Of an unsteady youth, a giddy braine, 45 

1 74 Wlit IBrobm l^eart (Act n. 

Greene indiscretion, flattery of greatnesse, 

Rawnesse of judgement, wilfulnesse in folly, 

Thoughts vagrant as the wind, and as uncertaine. 

Might lead a boy in yeeres too : *twas a fault, 

A capitall fault ; for then I could not dive 50 

Into the secrets of commanding love : 

Since when, experience, by the extremities in 

Hath forc'd me to collect, and, trust me, Crot- 

I will redeeme those wrongs with any service 
Your satisfaction can require for currant. 55 

jfrmo. Thy acknowledgement is satisfaction. 
What would you more ? 

Crot. I'me conquer'd : if Euphrania ; 

Her selfe admit the motion, let it be so. 
I doubt not my sonnes liking. 

Itho. Use my fortunes, 

Life, power, sword, and heart, all are your owne. 60 

Enter Bassanes, Propbilus^ Calantba, Pentbeay Eu- 
pbranea, Cbrystalla, Pbilema, and Grausis, 

Armo. The princesse with your sister. 

Calantha, I present *ee 

A stranger here in court, my lord ; for did not 
Desire of seeing you draw her abroad. 
We had not beene made happy in her company. 

52 the extremities. G-D, th* extremes. 

56 Thy acknowledgement, G-D, Th* acknowledgment. 

scEN. n.] tCi^e )15roten l^eait 1 75 

Itho, You are a gracious princesse. — Sister, 
wedlocke 65 

Holds too severe a passion in your nature. 
Which can engrosse all duty to your husband, 
Without attendance on so deare a mistresse. 
*Tis not my brothers pleasure, I presume, 
T' immure her in a chamber. 

Bassanes. 'Tis her will ; 70 

Shee governes her owne houres. Noble Ithocles, 
We thanke the gods for your successe and welfare. 
Our lady has of late beene indispos'd. 
Else we- had waited on you with the first. 

Itho. How does Penthea now ? 

Penthea, You best know, brother, 75 

From whom my health and comforts are deriv'd. 

Bass, [aside] . I like the answer well : 'tis sad 
and modest. 
There may be tricks yet, tricks. — Have an 
eye, Grausis ! 

CaL Now, Crotolon, the suit we joyn'd in 
must not 
Fall by too long demurre. 

Crot. *Tis granted, princesse, 80 

For my part. 

Armo. With condition, that his sonne 

Favour the contract. 

CaL Such delay is easie. 

The joyes of marriage make thee, Prophilus, 

176 Wift HBuAxn ^tm v^ctu. 

A proud deserver of Euphrania's love, 
And her of thy desert. 

Proph. Most sweetly gracious ! ^ 

Bass. The joyes of marriage are the heaven 
on earth, 
Life's paradise, great princesse, the soules quiet, 
Sinewes of concord, earthly immortality. 
Eternity of pleasures ; no restoratives 
Like to a constant woman ! — [Aside,'] But where 

is she ? 9 

*Twould puzzle all the gods but to create 
Such a new monster. — I can speake by proofe. 
For I rest in Elizium ; 'tis my happinesse. 
Crot. Euphrania, how are you resolv'd, speake 
In your affections to this gentleman ? 91 

Euphranea, Nor more nor lesse then as his 
love assures me. 
Which, if your liking with my brothers warrants, 
I cannot but approve in all points worthy. 
Crot. So, so, I know your answer. 
Itho. *T had bin pitty 

To sunder hearts so equally consented. 100 

Enter Hemopbill, 
HemophtL The king. Lord Ithocles, com- 
mands your presence ; 
And, fairest princesse, yours. 

CaL We will attend him. 

scsKB nj tEHit IBroben l&eatt 177 

Enter Groneas, 

Groneas, Where are the lords ? All must unto 
the king 
Without delay : the Prince of Argos — 

Cal. Well, sir. 

Gron, Is comming to the court, sweet lady. 

Cal, How ! 105 

The Prince of Argos ? 

Gron. *Twas my fortune, madam, 

T'cnjoy the honour of these happy tidings. 

Itho. Penthea! 

Pen. Brother ! 

Itho. Let me an howre hence 

Meet you alone within the palace grove ; 
I have some secret with you. — Prethe, friend, no 
Conduct her thither, and have speciall care 
The walks be clear'd of any to disturbe us. 

Proph. I shall. 

Bass. How's that? 

Itho. Alone, pray be alone. — 

I am your creature, princesse. — On, my lords ! 

Exeunt [except Bassanes,"] 

Bass. Alone ! alone ! what meanes that word 
"alone**? 115 

Why might not I be there ? — hum ! — hee's 

her brother; 
Brothers and sister$ are but flesh and blood, 

1 78 tEPfir ysttslkm ^tm t^cr n. 

And this same whorson court ease is temptation 
To a rebellion in the veines. — Besides, 
His fine friend Prophilus must be her guardian. 12 
Why may not he dispatch a businesse nimbly 
Before the other come? — or — pandring, pan- 

For one another, bee't to sister, mother. 
Wife, couzen, any thing, 'mongst youths of 

Is in request. It is so — stubborne fate: 12 

But if I be a cuckold, and can know it, 
I will be fell, and fell. 

\Jle-'\enter Groneas. 
Gron, My lord, y'are cali'd for. 

Bass. Most hartily I thanke ye. Where's my 

wife, pray ? 
Gron, Retir'd amongst the ladies — 
Bass. Still I thanke 'ee : 

There's an old waiter with her; saw you her too ? 13c 
Gron. She sits i'th presence lobby fast asleepe, 

Bass. Asleepe ? sleepe, sir ! 
Gron. Is your lordship troubled ? 

You will not to the king? 

Bass. Your humblest vassaile. 

Gron. Your servant, my good lord. 
Bass. I wait your footsteps. 


scM«in.] Wlft ySxdbm ijtm 179 

SCAENE THE THIRD. [Thi gardens of 

thi palace^ 

Prophilusy Penthea, 

Prophilus. In this walke, lady, will your brother 
find you : 
And, with your favour, give me leave a little 
To worke a preparation. In his fashion 
I have observ'd of late some kind of slacknesse 
To such alacrity as nature 5 

And custome tooke delight in : sadnesse growes 
Upon his recreations, which he hoards 
In such a willing silence, that to question 
The grounds will argue [little] skill in friendship. 
And lesse good manners. 

Penthea. Sir, I'me not inquisitive lo 

Of secrecies without an invitation. 

Proph, With pardon, lady, not a sillable 
Of mine implyes so rude a sense ; the drift — 
Enter Orgilus, [^disguised as before, ] 

Proph, Doe thy best 
To make this lady merry for an houre. Exit. 15 

Orgilus, Your will shall be a law, sir. 

Pen, Prethe, leave me ; 

I have some private thoughts I would account 

with : 
Use thou thine owne. 

5 G-D supplies [once] after nature, 9 iittie. Supplied by G-D. 

i8o WIft ISrokrn i^tart [Acru 

Org.. Speake on, faire nimph, our soules 
Can dance as well to musicke of the spheares 
As any's who have feasted with the gods. 20 

Pen. Your schoole terms are too troublesome. 

Org. What heaven 

Refines mortality from drosse of earth 
But such as uncompounded beauty hallowes 
With glorified perfection. 

Pen. Set thy wits 

In a lesse wild proportion. 

Org. Time can never *5 

On the white table of unguilty faith 
Write counterfeit dishonour ; turne those eyes, 
The arrowes of pure love, upon that fire 
Which once rose to a flame, perfum'd with 

As sweetly scented as the incense smoking 30 

On Vesta's altars, 

. . . the holiest odours, virgin teares, 

. . . sprinkled, like dewes, to feed 'em. 
And to increase their fervour. 

Pen. Be not franticke. 

Org. All pleasures are but meere imagination, 35 
Feeding the hungry appetite with steame, 

31-33 On fiesta* s . . . to feed* em. So arranged by G. In 
Q this passage appears thus: 

The holiest Artars, Virgin teares (Hke 
On Vead'i odours) sprinkled dewet to feed *emy 

scENs m.i tn;^ ysxdbm l^eart 1 8 1 

And sight of banquet, whilst the body pines. 
Not relishing the reall tast of food : 
Such is the leannesse of a heart divided 
From entercourse of troth-contracted loves ; 40 
No horror should deface that precious figure 
Seal'd with the lively stampe of equall soules. 
Pen. Away! some fury hath bewitch'd thy 

tongue : 
The breath of ignorance that flyes from thence. 
Ripens a knowledge in me of afflictions 45 

Above all sufFrance. — Thing of talke, be gone ! 
Be gone, without reply ! 

Org. Be just, Penthea, 

In thy commands : when thou send'st forth a 

Of banishment, know first on whom it lights. 
Thus I take ofF the shrowd, in which my cares 50 
Are folded up from view of common eyes. 

[^Throws off' bis scholar* s dress.'\ 

What is thy sentence next ? 

Pen. Rash man, thou layest 

A blemish on mine honour, with the hazard 
Of thy too desperate life : yet I professe. 
By all the lawes of ceremonious wedlocke, 55 

I have not given admittance to one thought 
Of female change since cruelty enforced 
Divorce betwixt my body and my heart : 
Why would you fall from goodnesse thus ? 

1 82 wift ISrokrn ijtm [acth. 

Org. O, rather 

Examine me how I could live to say 6c 

I have bin much, much wrong'd. *Tis for thy 

I put on this imposture : deare Penthea, 
If thy soft bosome be not turn'd to marble, 
Thou't pitty our calamities ; my interest 
Confirmes me thou art mine still. 

Pen, Lend your hand ; 6f 

With both of mine I claspe it thus ; thus kisse 

Thus kneele before ye. 

Org. You instruct my duty. 

Pen. We may stand up. Have you ought else 
to urge 
Of new demand ? As for the old, forget it; 
'Tis buried in an everlasting silence, 7^ 

And shall be, shall be ever; what more would 
ye ? 

Org, I would possesse my wife ; the equity 
Of very reason bids me. 

Pen, Is that all ? 

Org. Why 'tis the all of me my selfe. 

Pen, Remove 

Your steps some distance from me ; at this space 7 
A few words I dare change ; but first put on 
Your borrowed shape. 

Org. You are obey*d j 'tis done. 

scENi: m.] tEUft ySxdkm ijtm 1 83 

Pen, How, Orgilus, by promise I was thine 
The heavens doe witnesse ; they can witnesse 

A rape done on my truth : how I doe love thee go 
Yet, Orgilus, and yet, must best appeare 
In tendering thy freedome ; for I find 
The constant preservation of thy merit, 
By thy not daring to attempt my fame 
With injury of any loose conceit, 85 

Which might give deeper wounds to discontents. 
Continue this faire race ; then, though I cannot 
Adde to thy comfort, yet I shall more often 
Remember from what fortune I am fallen. 
And pitty mine owne mine. — Live, live happy, 90 
Happy in thy next choyce, that thou maist 

This barren age with vertues in thy issue ! 
And O, when thou art married, thinke on me 
With mercy, not contempt ! I hope thy wife. 
Hearing my story, will not scorne my fall. 95 

Now let us part. 

Org. Part ! yet advise thee better : 

Penthea is the wife to Orgilus, 
And ever shall be. 

Pen. Never shall nor will. 

Org. How! 

Pen. Heare me ; in a word Pie tell thee why : 
The virgin dowry which my birth bestowM 100 

i84 Wift ISrobm ^tm v^ n 

Is ravish'd by another : my true love 
Abhorres to thinke that Orgilus deserv'd 
No better favours then a second bed. 

Org. I must not take this reason. 

Pen, To confirme it 3 

Should I outlive my bondage, let me meet 
Another worse then this and lesse desir'd. 
If of all the men alive thou shouldst but touch 
My lip or hand againe ! 

Org. Penthea, now 

I tell 'ee, you grow wanton in my sufferance : 
Come, sweet, th'art mine. 

Pen. Uncivill sir, forbeare, 

Or I can turne affection into vengeance ; 
Your reputation, if you value any. 
Lyes bleeding at my feet. Unworthy man. 
If ever henceforth thou appeare in language. 
Message, or letter to betray my frailty, 
I'le call thy former protestations lust. 
And curse my starres for forfeit of my judge- 
Goe thou, fit onely for disguise and walkes. 
To hide thy shame: this once I spare thy life. 
I laugh at mine owne confidence ; my sorrowes 
By thee are made inferiour to my fortunes. 
If ever thou didst harbour worthy love, 
Dare not to answer. My good Genius guide me, 

107 tie, G-D omiti. 

scENs ni.] tEJIft ySxdbm ijtm 1 85 

That I may never see thee more ! — Goe from 
Org. r [1] e teare my vaile of politicke French 
ofF, ,25 

And stand up like a man resolv'd to doe : 
Action, not words, shall shew me. O Penthea ! 

Exit Orgilus, 

Pen, 'A sigh'd my name, sure, as he parted 
from me: 
I feare I was too rough. Alas, poore gentleman, 
*A look'd not like the ruines of his youth, 130 

But like the ruines of those ruines. Honour, 
How much we fight with weaknesse to preserve 
thee ! 

Enter Bassanes and Grausis, 

Bassanes, Fye on thee! damb thee, rotten 
, magat, damb thee ! 
Sleepe ? sleepe at court ? and now ? Aches, con- 
Impostumes, rhemes, gouts, palsies, clog thy 

bones 13^ 

A dozen yeeres more yet ! 

Grausis, Now y'are in humors. 

Bass, Shee's by her selfe, there's hope of that ; 
shee's sad too ; 
Shee's in strong contemplation ; yes, and fixt : 
The signes are wholesome. 

Grau. Very wholsome, truly. 

iS6 W^t iSroten l^^eait [acth. 

Bass. Hold your chops, night mare ! — Lady, 
come ; your brother i. 

Is carried to his closet ; you must thither. 

Pen, Not well, my lord ? 

Bass. A sudden fit; 'twill ofF; 

Some surfeit or disorder. — How doest, deerest ? 

Pen. Your newes is none o' th* best. 
[Re-'], enter Propbilus. 

Proph. • The chiefe of men, 

The excellentest Ithocles, desires i^ 

Your presence, madam. 

Bass. We are hasting to him. 

Pen. In vaine we labour in this course of life 
To piece our journey out at length, or crave 
Respite of breath ; our home is in the grave. 

Bass. Perfect philosophy : then let us care 15 
To live so that our reckonings may fall even 
When w'are to make account. 

Proph. He cannot feare 

Who builds on noble grounds : sicknesse or paine 
Is the deservers exercise ; and such 
Your vertuous brother to the world is knowne. 15 
Speake comfort to him, lady ; be all gentle : 
Starres fall but in the grossenesse of our sight; 
A good man dying, th' earth doth lose a light. 

Exeunt omnes. 

150-152 then let . . . account. G-D gives this to PeathoL 


[The study of Tecnicus.'j 
Enter Tecnicus, and Orgilus in his owne shape, 
Tecnicus, Be well advis'd; let not a resolu- 
Of giddy rashnesse choakethe breath of reason. 
Orgilus. It shall not, most sage master.' 
Teen, I am jealous : 

For if the borrowed shape so late put on 
Inferr'd a consequence, we must confclude 5 

Some violent designe of sudden nature 
Hath shooke that shadow off, to flye upon 
A new-hatch'd execution. Orgilus, 
Take heed thou hast not, under our integrity, 
Shrowded unlawfull plots : our mortall eyes xo 

Pierce not the secrets of your hearts ; the gods 
Are onely privic to them. 

Org, Learned Tecnicus, 

Such doubts are causelesse ; and to cleere the 

From misconceit, the present state commands 

The Prince of Argos comes himselfe in person 15 
In quest of great Calantha for his bride, 

II hearti, G-D, heart 

i88 tEPtre llBrokrn ijtm iact m. 

Our kingdomes heire ; besides, mine onely sister 

Euphrania is dispos'd to Prophilus ; 

Lastly, the king is sending letters for me 

To Athens for my quicke repaire to court : to 

Please to accept these reasons. 

Teen. Just ones, Orgilus. 

Not to be contradicted : yet beware 
Of an unsure foundation ; no faire colours 
Can fortifie a building faintly joynted. 
I have observM a growth in thy aspect 25 

Of dangerous extent, sudden, and, looke too't ! 
I might adde certaine — 

Org. My aspect ? Could art 

Runne through mine inmost thoughts, it should 

not sift 
An inclination there more then what suited 
With justice of mine honour. 

Teen. I belceve it. 30 

But know then, Orgilus, what honour is : 
Honour consists not in a bare opinion 
By doing any act that feeds content ; 
Brave in appearance, 'cause we thinke it brave : 
Such honour comes by accident, not nature, 3S 
Proceeding from the vices of our passion. 
Which makes our reason drunke. But reall 

Is the reward of vertue, and acquired 
By justice or by valour which for bases 

Sew. L] tEJIft Wxtjibm l&eatt 1 89 

Hath justice to uphold it. He then failes 40 

In honour, who for lucre [or] revenge 
Commits thefts, murthers, treasons, and adulter- 
With such like, by intrenching on just lawes. 
Whose sov'raignty is best preserv'd by justice. 
Thus, as you see how honour must be grounded 45 
On knowledge, not opinion, — for opinion 
Relyes on probability and accident. 
But knowledge on necessity and truth, — 
I leave thee to the fit consideration 
Of what becomes the grace of reall honour, 50 
Wishing successe to all thy vertuous meanings. 
Org, The gods increase thy wisdome, reverend 
And in thy precepts make me ever thrifty ! 

Exit Org. 
Teen, I thanke thy wish. — Much mystery of 
Lyes hid in that mans fortunes; curiosity 55 

May lead his actions into rare attempts; 
But let the gods be moderators still; 
No humane power can prevent their will. 

Enter Jrmostes. 
From whence come 'ee ? 

Armostes, From King Amyclas, — pardon 
My interruption of your studies. — Here, 60 

41 \pr\ So G-D. Q, of. 

I90 tD^r ISiPokrn ^tm (actiil 

In this seal'd box, he sends a treasure deare 
To him as his crowne ; 'a prayes your gravity 
You would examine, ponder, sift, and bolt 
The pith and circumstance of every tittle 
The scroll within containes. 

Teen. What is't, Armostes ? 65 

jfrmo. It is the health of Sparta, the kings life, 
Sinewes and safety of the common-wealth ; 
The summe of what the oracle delivered 
When last he visited the propheticke temple 
At Delphos : what his reasons are for which 70 
After so long a silence he requires 
You counsaile now, grave man, his majesty 
Will soone himselfe acquaint you with. 

Teen, Apollo 

Inspire my intellect ! — The Prince of Argos 
Is entertain'd? 

Jrmo. He is ; and has demanded 75 

Our princesse for his wife ; which I conceive 
One speciall cause the king importunes you 
For resolution of the oracle. 

Teen. My duty to the king, good peace to 
And faire day to Armostes ! 

Jrmo. Like to Tecnicus ! 80 


scEN. n.] tEJIft Brobm ^tm 1 9 1 

[SCENA SECUNDA. IthocUs' apartment in the 


Soft musicke, A song. 

Can you paint a thought? or number 
Every fancy in a slumber ? 
Can you count soft minutes roving 
From a dyals point by moving f 
Can you graspe a sigh f or, lastly , 5 

Rob a virgins honour chastly? 
NOf Of no ! yet you may 

Sooner doe both that and this. 
This and that, and never misse. 
Then by any praise display 10 

Beauties beauty, such a glory 
As beyond all fate, all story. 
All armes, all arts. 
All loves, all hearts. 
Greater then those, or they, 15 

Doe, shall, and must obey, 

Duringwhich time, enters Propbilus, Bassanes, Penthea, 
Grausis, passing over the stage; Bassanes andGrau- 
sis enter againe softly, stealing to severall stands, 
and listen, 

Bassanes. All silent, calme, secure. — Grausis, 
no creaking ? 
No noyse ? dost heare nothing ? 

Grausis. Not a mouse, 

Or whisper of the .winde. 

192 W^ ISroken ^tm lAcrm. 

Bass. The floore is matted, 

The bed-posts sure are Steele or marble. — Soul- 

diers oo 

Should not affect, me thinkes, straines so eflFem- 

inate ; 
Sounds of such delicacy are but fawnings 
Upon the sloth of luxury : they hei^ten 
Cinders of covert lust up to a flame. 

Grau, What doe you meane, my lord ? Speak 
low; that gabling 2j 

Of yours will but undoe us. 

Bass. Chamber-combats 

Are felt, not hard. 

Pro. [withifi]. *A wakes. 
Bass. What's that ? 

Ithocles \within\. Who's there 

Sister ? All quit the roome else. 

Bass. 'Tis consented ! 

[^Rf-']enter Propbilus. 

Proph. Lord Bassanes, your brother would be 
We must forbeare ; his sleepc hath newly left 

him. 3 

Please 'ee withdraw ? 

Bass. By any meanes ; *tis fit. 

Proph. Pray, gentlewoman, waike too. 
Grau. Yes, I will, sir. 

Exeunt omnes. 

scENi iL] tS^t IBroton l^eart 193 

[^ne scene opens\; Ithocles discovered in a cbayre, and 


Itho. Sit nearer, sister, to me ; nearer yet. 
We had one father, in one wombe tooke life. 
Were brought up twins together, yet have liv'd 35 
At distance like two strangers. I could wish 
That the first pillow whereon I was cradell'd 
Had prov'd to me a grave. 

Penthea, You had beene happy : 

Then had you never knowne that sinne of life 
Which blots all following glories with a ven- 
geance, 40 
For forfeiting the last will of the dead. 
From whom you had your being. 

Itho. Sad Penthea, 

Thou canst not be too cruell ; my rash spleehe 
Hath with a violent hand pluck'd from thy bosome 
A lover-blest heart, to grind it into dust, 45 

For which mine's now a breaking. 

Pen. Not yet, heaven, 

I doe beseech thee ! first let some wild fires 
Scorch, not consume it ; may the heat be cherisht 
With desires infinite, but hopes impossible ! 

Itho, Wrong'd soule, thy prayers are heard. 

Pen, Here, lo, I breathe 50 

A miserable creature, led to ruine 
By an unnaturall brother. 

45 lover-hlest, G-D, love-blest. 

1 94 Wfft IBroton t^^eart [act m. 

Itho. I consume 

In languishing affections for that trespasse, 
Yet cannot dye. 

Pen. The handmaid to the wages 

Of country toyle drinkes the untroubled streames 5 
With leaping kids and with the bleating lambes, 
And so allayes her thirst secure, whiles I 
Quench my hot sighes with fleetings of my 

Itho. The labourer doth eat his coursest bread, 
Earn'd with his sweat, and lyes him downe to 

sleepe ; ^ 

Which every bit I touch turnes in digestion 
To gall as bitter as Penthea's curse. 
Put me to any pen nance for my tyranny. 
And I will call thee mercifuU. 

Pen. Pray kill me. 

Rid me from living with a jealous husband ; i 
Then we will joyne in friendship, be againe 
Brother and sister. — Kill me, pray ; nay, wiU'ee ? 

Itho. How does thy lord esteeme thee ? 

Pen. Such an one 

As onely you have made me ; a faith-breaker, 
A spotted whore : forgive me, I am one : 

In act, not in desires, the gods must witnesse. 

55 Of. , . streames. So arranged by G. Q, the untroubled of 
country toyle, drinkes streames. 

6 1 Which. G-D While, digestion, Q, disgestion. 
71 act. Q, art. 

Scene H.] W^t IBrOfem l^eHlt 1 95 

Itho. Thou dost be lye thy friend. 

Pen, I doe not, Ithocles ; 

For she that's wife to Orgilus, and lives 
In knowne adultery with Bassanes, 
Is at the best a whore. Wilt kill me now ? 75 

The ashes of our parents will assume 
Some dreadfuU Agure, and appeare to charge 
Thy bloody gilt, that hast betray'd their name 
To infamy in this reproachfuU match. 

Itho. After my victories abroad, at home 80 

I meet despaire ; ingratitude of nature 
Hath made my actions monstrous : thou shalt 

A deity, my sister, and be worship'd 
For thy resolved martyrdome; wrong'd maids 
And married wives shall to thy hallowed shrine 85 
Offer their orisons, and sacrifice 
Pure turtles crown'd with mirtle, if thy pitty 
Unto a yeelding brothers pressure lend 
One finger but to ease it. 

Pen. O, no more ! 

Itho. Death waits to waft me to the Stygian 
bankes, 90 

And free me from this chaos of my bondage ; 
And till thou wilt forgive, I must indure. 

Pen. Who is the saint you serve? 

Itho. Friendship, or [nearness] 

93 nearneu. Supplied from G>D. 

196 WIft IBrdttn il^eart (act m. 

Of birth to any but my sister, durst not 

Have mov'd that question as a secret, sister : 9 

I dare not murmure to my selfe. 

Pen. Let me. 

By your new protestations I conjure *ee. 
Partake her name. 

Itho, Her name, — 'tis, -^ 'tis, I dare not. 

Pen. All your respects are forg'd. 

Itho. They are not. — Peace ! 

Calantha is the princesse, the kings daughter, 10 
Sole heire of Sparta. — Me most miserable ! 
Doe I now love thee ? for my injuries 
Revenge thy selfe with bravery, and gossip 
My treasons to the kings eares. Doe; Calantha 
Knowes it not yet, nor Prophilus, my nearest, k 

Pen. Suppose you were contracted to her, 
would it not 
Split even your very soule to see her father 
Snatch her out of your armes against her will. 
And force her on the Prince of Argos ? 

Itho. Trouble not 

The fountaines of mine eyes with thine owne 

story ; 



I sweat in blood for't. 

Pen. We are reconcil'd: 

Alas, sir, being children, but two branches 

95 question . . . sister. G-D puts a semicolon after fuestiau^ 
changes as to *m, and puts a comma after nsttr. 

Sons IL] WIft HBtOtXtt ^tKtt 197 

Of one stocke, 'tis not fit we should divide : 
Have comfort, you may find it. 

Itho. Yes, in thee : 

Onely in thee, Penthea mine. 

P^n. Ifsorrowes 115 

Have not too much duU'd my infected braine, 
pie cheere invention for an active straine. 

It ho. Mad man ! why have I wrong'd a maid 
so excellent ! 

Enter Bassanes with a ponyard, Propbilus, Groneas^ 

Hemophilic and Grausis, 
Bass. I can forbeare no longer; more, I will 
Keepe oiFyour hands, or fall upon my point. 120 
Patience is tye'd, for like a slow-pac'd asse 
Ye ride my easie nature, and proclaime 
My sloth to vengeance a reproach and property. 
Itho. The meaning of this rudenesse ? 
Proph. Hee's distracted. 

Pen. O my griev'd lord ! 

Grau. Sweet lady, come not neere him; 125 

He holds his perilous weapon in his hand 
To pricke 'a cares not whom, nor where, — see, 
see, see! 
Bass. My birth is noble : though the popular 
Of vanity, as giddy as thy youth. 
Hath rear'd thy name up to bestride a cloud, 130 

1 98 Wfft IBrofcm t^^eart [act m. 

Or progresse in the chariot of the sunne, 
I am no clod of trade, to lackey pride, 
Nor, like your slave of expectation, wait 
The baudy hinges of your dores, or whistle 
For mysticall conveyance to your bed-sports, i 

Groneas, Fine humors ! They become him. 

HemophiL How 'a stares, 

Struts, pufFes, and sweats : most admirable lunacy ! 

Itho, But that I may conceive the spirit of 
Has tooke possession of your soberer custome, 
rde say you were unmannerly. 

Pen, Deare brother! 

Bass. Unmannerly! — Mew, kitling! — Smooth 
Is usher to the ranknesse of the blood. 
But impudence beares up the traine. Indeed, 

Your fiery mettall or your springall blaze 
Of huge renowne is no sufficient royalty 
To print upon my forehead the scome, ** cuck- 

Itho. His jealousie has rob'd him of his wits ; 
'A talkes 'a knowes not what. 

Bass. Yes, and 'a knowes 

To whom 'a talkes ; to one that franks his lust 
In swine-security of bestiall incest. 

Itho. Hah, devill I 

scENi: n.] tci^t IBrofem ^tm 199 

Bass. I will hallo't, though I blush more 

To name the filthinesse than thou to act it. 

It ho. Monster! [^Dratos bis sword.'] 

Proph. Sir, by our friendship — 

Pen. By our bloods, 

Will you quite both undoe us, brother ? 

Grau. Out on him. 

These are his megrims, firks, and melancholies. 155 

Hem. Well said, old touch-hole. 

Gron. Kick him out at dores. 

Pen. With favour, let me speake. — My lord, 
what slacknesse 
In my obedience hath deserv'd this rage ? 
Except humility and silent duty 
Have drawne on your unquiet, my simplicity 160 
NeVe studied your vexation. 

Bass. Light of beauty, 

Deale not ungently with a desperate wound ! 
No breach of reason dares make warre with her 
Whose lookes are soveraignty, whose breath is 

balme : 
O that I could preserve thee in fruition 165 

As in devotion ! 

Pen. Sir, may every evill 

Lock'd in Pandora's box, showre, in your pres- 
On my unhappy head, if since you made me 

159 iiUnt. So G-D. Q, sinlent. 

200 W^t IBroton ^tm v^ nL 

A partner in your bed, I have beene faulty 
In one unseemely thought against your honour. 170 
Itho. Purge not his griefes, Penthea. 
Bass, Yes, say on, 

Excellent creature! — Good, be not a hinderance 
To peace and praise of vertue. — O my senses 
Are charm'd with sounds caelestiall ! — On, 

deare, on ; 
I never gave you one ill word ; say, did I ? 175 
Indeed I did not. 

Pen. Nor, by Juno's forehead. 

Was I e're guilty of a wanton error. 
Bass. O goddesse ! let me kneele. 
Grau. Alas, kind animall. 

Itho. No, but for pennance. 
Bass. Noble sir, what is it? 

With gladnesse I embrace it ; yet, pray let not 180 
My rashnesse teach you to be too unmercifull. 
Itho. When you shall shew good proofe that 
manly wisdome. 
Not over-sway'd by passion or opinion, 
Knowes how to lead [yourj judgement, then 

this lady. 
Your wife, my sister, shall returnc in safety 185 
Home to be guided by you j but, till first 
I can out of cleare evidence approve it, 
Shee shall be my care. 

1 84 ycatr. Supplied from G^D. 

scM^tn n.] w^t IBroton ^tm 201 

Bass, Rip my bosome up, 

Pie stand the execution with a constancy : 
This torture is unsufFerable. 

Itho. Well, sir, 190 

I dare not trust her to your fury. 

Bass. But 

Penthea sayes not so. 

Pen, She needs no tongue 

To plead excuse who never purposed wrong. 

Hem. Virgin of reverence and antiquity. 
Stay you behind. 195 

Gron, The court wants not your diligence. 

Exeunt omnes, sed Bass, i^ Graus. 

Grau. What will you doe, my lord ? my la- 
dy's gone ; 
I am deny'd to follow. 

Bass. I may see her. 

Or speake to her once more. 

Grau. And feele her too, man ; 

Be of good cheare, she's your owne flesh and 

bone. 200 

Bass. Diseases desperate must find cures alike : 
She swore she has beene true. 

Grau. True, on my modesty. 

Bass. Let him want truth who credits not her 
vowes ! 
Much wrong I did her, but her brother infinite; 
Rumor will voyce me the contempt of manhood, 205 

202 Wlft IBroken iftm (act m. 

Should I run on thus. Some way I must try 
To out-doe art> and jealousie [dejcry. 

Exeunt onmes, 

SCENA TERTIA. [A room in the palace.] 

Flourish, Enter Amyclas, Nearchus leading CaUntha^ 
Jrmostes, Crotolotiy Eupbranea, Cbristalla, Pbik' 
ma, and Amelus. 

Amyclas. Cozen of Argos, what the heavens 
have pleas'd 
In their unchanging counsels to conclude 
For both ourkingdomes weale,wemust submit to: 
Nor can we be unthankfull to their bounties. 
Who, when we were even creeping to our 

graves, j 

Sent us a daughter, in whose birth our hope 
Continues of succession. As you are 
In title next, being grandchilde to our aunt. 
So we in heart desire you may sit nearest 
Calantha's love ; since we have ever vow*d lo 

Not to in force affection by our will. 
But by her owne choyce to confirme it gladly. 

Nearchus. You speake the nature of a right 
just father. 
I come not hither roughly to demand 

207 jealousie decry. Emendation made by Q-D. Q9 ciy n jol- 

5 graves. So Q and G$ changed by D in G-D to grmn. ; 

stENE mi W9t IBroton l^eatt 203 

My cozens thraldome, but to free mine owne : 15 
Report of great Calantha's beauty, vertue, 
Sweetnesse, and singular perfections, courted 
All eares to credit what I finde was published 
By constant truth : from which, if any service 
Of my desert can purchase faire construction, 20 
This lady must command it. 

Calantha. Princely sir. 

So well you know how to professe observance 
That you instruct your hearers to become 
Practitioners in duty; of which number 
I'le study to be chiefe. 

Near. Chiefe, glorious virgine, »5 

In my devotions, as in all mens wonder. 

Amy. Excellent cozen, we deny no libertie j 
Use thine owne opportunities. — Armostes, 
We must consult with the philosophers ; 
The businesse is of weight. 

Armostes. Sir, at your pleasure. 3® 

Amy. You told me, Crotolon, your Sonne's 
From Athens : wherefore comes 'a not to court 
As we commanded ? 

Crotolon. He shall soone attend 

Your royall will, great sir. 

Amy. The marriage 

Betweene young Prophilus and Euphranea, 3S 

Tasts of too much delay. 

204 ^^t IBrofcm il^eait [act m. 

Crot. My lord — 

jfmy. Some pleasures 

At celebration of it would give life 
To th' entertainment of the prince our kinsman ; 
Our court weares gravity more then we rellish. 
jfrm. Yet the heavens smile on all your high 
attempts, 40 

Without a cloud. 

Crot. So may the gods protect us! 

CaL A prince, a subject ? 
Near. Yes, to beauties scepter; 

As all hearts kneele, so mine. 

Cal, You are too courtly. 

[^Eftter"] to tbem, ItbocieSy Orgilus, Propbilus. 
Ithocles, Your safe returne to Sparta is most 
welcome ; 
I joy to meet you here, and as occasion 45 

Shall grant us privacy, will yeeld you reasons 
Why I should covet to deserve the title 
Of your respected friend ; for without comple- 
Beleeve it, Orgilus, 'tis my ambition. 

Orgilus. Your lordship may command me, 

your poore servant. 50 

It ho. [aside]. So amorously close? — So 

soone ? — my heart ! 
Prophilus. What sudden change is next ? 

51 close, Q, dote dote. 

scwnc ni.j ta^^t IBrolien ^tm 205 

Itho. Life to the king. 

To whom I here present this noble gentleman, 
New come from Athens ; royall sir, vouchsafe 
Your gracious hand in favour of his merit. 55 

Crot. [aside^. My Sonne preferred by Ithocles! 

Amy, Our bounties 

Shall open to thee, Orgilus ; for instance, — 
Harke in thine eare, — if out of those inventions 
Which flow in Athens, thou hast there ingrost 
Some rarity of wit to grace the nuptials 60 

Of thy faire sister, and renowne our court 
In th' eyes of this young prince, we shall be 

To thy conceit ; thinke on't. 

Org, Your highnesse honors mie. 

Near. My tongue and heart are twins. 

CaL A noble birth, 

Becomming such a father. — Worthy Orgilus, 65 
You are a guest most wish'd for. 

Org. May my duty 

Still rise in your opinion, sacred princesse ! 

Itho. Euphranea's brother, sir, a gentleman 
Well worthy of your knowledge. 

Near. We embrace him. 

Proud of so deare acquaintance. 

Amy. All prepare 70 

For revels and disport ; the joyes of Hymen, 
Like Phoebus in his lustre, puts to flight 


2o6 HPIft IBroton 9ftBtt (act m. 

All mists of dulnesse ; crowne the houres with 

gladnesse ; 
No sounds but musicke, no discourse but mirth. 
CaL Thine arme, I prethe> Ithocles. — 
Nay, good 71 

My lord, keepe on your way ; I am provided. 
Near. I dare not disobey. 
Itbo. Most heavenly lady ! Exeunt, 

[SCENA QUARTA. J room in the house of 


Enter Crotolon, Orgilus. 

Crotohn. The king hath spoke his mind. 

Orgilus. His will he hath; 

But were it lawfull to hold plea against 
The power of greatnesse, not the reason, haply 
Such under-shrubs as subjects sometimes might 
Borrow of nature justice, to informe 
That licence soveraignty holds without checke 
Over a meeke obedience. 

Crot. How resolve you 

Touching your sisters marriage ? Prophilus 
Is a deserving and a hopeful! youth. 

Org, I envy not his merit, but applaud it; i 
Could [wish] him thrift in all his best desires, 
And with a willingnesse inleague our blood 

II \wi$h\. So G-D. Q, with. 

Scene IVJ XE^^ JBtOtXtl ^t&tt 20/ 

With his, for purchase of full growth in friend- 
He never touch'd on any wrong that malic'd 
The honour of our house, nor stirr'd our peace; 15 
Yet, with your favour, let me not forget 
Under whose wing he gathers warmth and com- 
Whose creature he is bound, made, and must 
live so. 
Crot. Sonne, sonne, I find in thee a harsh 
condition ; 
No curtesie can winne it ; 'tis too ranckorous. 20 
Org. Good sir, be not severe in your con- 
struction ; 
I am no stranger to such easie calmes 
As sit in tender bosomes : lordly Ithocles 
Hath grac'd my entertainment in abundance ; 
Too humbly hath descended from that height 25 
Of arrogance and spleene which wrought the 

On griev'd Penthea's purity : his scorne 
Of my untoward fortunes is reclaimed 
Unto a courtship, almost to a fawning : 
rie kisse his foot, since you will have it so. 30 
Crot. Since I will have it so ? Friend, I will 
have it so 
Without our mine by your politike plots, 

29 courtship, Q, coutship. 

2o8 WIft IBrofcm It^eart (act in. 

Or wolfe of hatred snarling in your breast. 
You have a spirit, sir, have ye ? a familiar 
That poasts i'th' ayre for your intelligence ? 35 
Some such hobgoblin hurried you from Athens, 
For yet you come unsent for. 

Org. If unwelcome, 

I might have found a grave there. 

Crot. Sure, your businesse 

Was soone dispatch'd, or your mind alter'd 

Org. 'Twas care, sir, of my health cut short 
my journey ; 4o 

For there a generall infection 
Threatens a desolation. 

Crot. And I feare 

Thou hast brought backe a worse infection with 

Infection of thy mind ; which, as thou sayst. 
Threatens the desolation of our family. 45 

Org. Forbid it, our deare Genius! I will 
Be made a sacrifice on Thrasus monument. 
Or kneele to Ithocles his sonne in dust. 
Then wooe a fathers curse. My sisters marriage 
With Prophilus is from my heart confirmed : 5« 
May I live hated, may I dye despis'd. 
If I omit to further it in all 
That can concerne me ! 

Scene IV.] W^t WtOiXn ijtSCt 209 

Crot. I have beene too rough. 

My duty to my king made me so earnest ; 
Excuse it Orgilus. 

Org. Deare sir, — 

Efifer to tbem, Propbilus, Euphranea^ Ithocles, Gro* 

neaSf HemophiL 

Crot, Here comes 55 

Euphranea, with Prophilus and Ithocles. 

Org. Most honored ! — ever famous ! 

Ithocles. Your true friend ; 

On earth not any truer. — With smooth eyes 
Looke on this worthy couple 5 your consent 
Can onely make them one. 

Org. They have it. — Sister, 60 

Thou pawn'dst to me an oath, of which ingage- 

I never will release thee, if thou aym'st 
At any other choyce then this. 

Euphranea. Deare brother, 

At him or none. 

Crot. To which my blessing's added. 

Org. Which, till a greater ceremony per- 
fect, 65 
Euphranea, lend thy hand ; here, take her, Pro- 
philus : 
Live long a happy man and wife ; and further. 
That these in presence may conclude an omen. 
Thus for a bridall song I close my wishes : 

210 Wft IBndttti iftm t^ci HL 

Comforts lasting^ loves increasing^ 70 

Like soft houres never ceasing ; 

Plenties pleasure^ peace complying 

Without jarresy or tongues envying / 

Hearts by holy union wedded 

More then theirs by custome bedded 5 ^^ 

Fruitfull issues ; life so graced. 

Not by age to be defaced. 

Budding, as the yeare ensu^th, \ 

Every spring another youth : 

All what thought can adde beside 80 

Crowne this bridegroome and this bride! 

Prophilus. You have seal'd joy close to my 
soule : Euphranea, 
Now I may call thee mine. 

Itho. I but exchange 

One good friend for another. 

Org. If these gallants 

Will please to grace a poore invention 85 

By joyning with me in some slight devise, 
lie venture on a straine my younger dayes 
Have studied for delight. 

HemophiL With thankfull willingnesse 

I offer my attendance ; 

Groneas. No endevour 

Of mine shall faile to shew itselfe. 

Itho. . We will 90 

All joyne to wait on thy directions, Orgilus. 

scENt vj wift IBrofcm ijtm 211 

Org. O, my good lord, your favours flow 
A too unworthy worme ; but as you please ; 
I am what you will shape me. 

Itho. A fast friend. 

CroL I thanke thee, sonne, for this acknowl- 
edgement ; 95 
It is a sight of gladnesse. 

Org. But my duty. Exeunt omnes. 

[SCENA QUINTA Calantha*s apartment 

in the palace.^ 

Enter Calantba^ Pen the a, Cbristalla^ Phikma. 

Calantha. Who e're would speake with us, 
deny his entrance; 
Be carefull of our charge. 

Chris talla. We shall, madam. 

CaL Except the king himselfe, give none 
admittance ; 
Not any. 

Philema. Madam, it shall be our care. 

Exeunt [^Christ alia and Phi}ema.'\ 

Calantha^ Penthea. 

CaL Being alone, Penthea, you have granted '5 
The oportunity you sought, and might 
At all times have commanded. 

Penthea. 'Tis a benefit 

212 tE^r )i5rofcm ^tm wct m. 

Which I shall owe your goodnesse even in death 

My glasse of life, sweet princesse, hath few 

Remaining to runne downe ; the sands are spent; 
For by an inward messenger I feele 
The summons of departure short and certaine. 

CaL You feed too much your melancholly. 

Pen. Glories 

Of humane greatnesse are but pleasing dreames 
And shadowes soone decaying: on the stage 
Of my mortality my youth hath acted 
Some scenes of vanity, drawne out at length 
By varied pleasures, sweetned in the mixture, 
But tragicall in issue : beauty, pompe. 
With every sensuality our giddinesse 
Doth frame an idoU, are unconstant friends 
When any troubled passion makes assault 
On the unguarded castle of the mind. 

CaL Contemne not your condition for the 
Of bare opinion onely : to what end 
Reach all these morall texts? 

Pen, To place before *ec 

A perfect mirror, wherein you may sec 
How weary I am of a lingring life. 
Who count the best a misery. 

CaL Indeed 

scK«v.i tET^r lIBrofcen Harare 213 

You have no little cause: yet none so great 30 

As to distrust a remedy. 

Pen. That remedy 

Must be a winding sheet, a fold of lead. 
And some untrod-on corner in the earth. 
Not to detaine your expectation, princesse, 
I have an humble suit. 

CaL Speake ; I enjoy it. 35 

Pen. Vouchsafe, then, to be my executrix. 
And take that trouble on 'ee to dispose 
Such legacies as I bequeath impartially : 
I have not much to give, the paines are easie; 
Heaven will reward your piety, and thanke it 40 
When I am dead ; for sure I must not live \ 
I hope I cannot. 

CaL Now, beshrew thy sadnesse; 

Xhou turn'st me too much woman. 

Pen. [aside'^ . Her faire eyes 

Melt into passion. — Then I have assurance 
Encouraging my boldnesse. — In this paper 45 
My will was charactered ^ which you, with 

Shall now know from mine owne mouth. 

CaL Talke on, prethe; 

It is a pretty earnest. 

Pen. I have left me 

35 ^j^' So Q and G-D. D suggests " enjoin. ** W. sub- 
stitutes and for /. 

214 tlOft 1B€Ata pmt lAcTin. 

But three poore jewels to bequeath. The 

first is 
My youth ; for though I am much old in griefes, 5 
In yeares I am a child. 

CaL To whom that ? 

Pen. To virgin-wives, such as abuse not wed- 
By freedome of desires, but covet chiefly 
The pledges of chast beds for tyes of love. 
Rather than ranging of their blood ; and next 5 
To married maids, such as preferre the number 
Of honorable issue in their vertues 
Before the flattery of delights by marriage : 
May those be ever young ! 

Cal, A second Jewell 

You meane to part with. 

Pen. *Tis my fiime, I trust i 

By scandall yet untouch'd ; this I bequeath 
To Memory, and Times old daughter, Truth. 
If ever my unhappy name find mention 
When I am falne to dust, may it deserve 
Beseeming charity without dishonour. ( 

CaL How handsomely thou playst with harm- 
lesse sport 
Of meere imagination ; speake the last, 
I strangely like thy will. 

Pen. This Jewell, madam, 

51 To tvhom that? G-D, To whom that pewd] ? 

Scene V.] Wl^t UStOiXn ^tBtt 215 

Is dearely precious to me ; you must use 
The best of your discretion to imploy 
This gift as I entend it. 

CaL Doe not doubt me. 

Pen, 'Tis long agone since first I lost my 
Long I have liv'd without it, else for certaine 
I should have given that too ; but in stead 
Of it, to great Calantha, Sparta's heire, i 75 

By service bound and by affection vow'd, 
I doe bequeath in holiest rites of love 
Mine onely brother, Ithocles. 

CaL What saydst thou? • 

Pen. Impute not, heaven-blest lady, to am- 
A faith as humbly perfect as the prayers 80 

Of a devoted suppliant can indow it : 
Looke on him, princesse, with an eye of pitty; 
How like the ghost of what he late appeared 
A' moves before you. 

CaL Shall I answer here. 

Or lend my eare too grossely f 

Pen. First, his heart 85 

Shall fall in cynders, scorch'd by your dis- 

E're he will dare, poore man, to ope an eye 
On these divine lookes, but with low-bent 

2i6 tETIir IBrofcm l(^eait > (actdl 

Accusing such presumption ; as for words, 

A' dares not utter any but of service : 9' 

Yet this lost creature loves *ee. — Be a princesse 
In sweetnesse as in blood ; give him his doome, 
Or raise him up to comfort. 

CaL What new change 

Appeares in my behaviour, that thou dar'st 
Tempt my displeasure ? 

Pen. I must leave the world 9; 

To revell [in] Elizium, and 'tis just 
To wish my brother some advantage here ; 
Yet, by my best hopes, Ithocles is ignorant 
Of this pursuit. But if you please to kill him. 
Lend him one angry looke or one harsh word, io( 
And you shall soone conclude how strong a 

Your absolute authority holds over 
His life and end. 

CaL You have forgot, Penthea, 

How still I have a father. 

Pen. But remember 

I am a sister, though to me this brother loi 

Hath beene, you know, unkinde, O, most un- 
kinde ! 

CaL Christalla, Philema, where are 'ee? — 
Your checke lyes in my silence. 

96 in. Supplied in G-D 

seiME v.] wiit IBrofcm ijtm 217 

[Re'l^enter Christalla and Pbilema, 
Both. Madam, here. 

CaL I thinke 'ee sleepe, 'ee drones \ wait on 


Unto her lodging. — [AsideJ^ Ithocles ? wrong'd 

lady! no 

Pen. My reckonings are made even ; death or 
Can now nor strike too soone nor force too late. 




Ithocles apartment in the palace. 
Enter Ithocles and Armostes. 

Ithocles. Forbeare your inquisition : curiosity 
Is of too subtill and too searching nature, 
In feares of love too quicke, too slow of credit : 
I am not what you doubt me. 

Armostes. Nephew, be, then, 

As I would wish; — all is not right, — good 

Confirme your resolutions for dependance 
On worthy ends which may advance your quiet ! 

Itho. I did the noble Orgilus much injury. 
But griev'd Penthea more : I now repent it ; 
Now, uncle, now ; this ** now" is now too late : 
So provident is folly in sad issue. 
That after-wit, like bankrupts debts, stand tallyed 
Without all possibilities of payment. 
Sure he's an honest, very honest gentleman ; 
A man of single meaning. 

Arm. I beleevc it : 

Yet, nephew, 'tis the tongue informes our eares ; 
Our eyes can never pierce into the thoughts. 

scinel] tS^ SBnriteti i^cart 219 

For they are lodged too inward : — but I question 
No truth in Orgilus. — The princesse, sir ! 

Itho. The Princesse ? ha ! 

Arm. With her, the Prince of Argos. 20 

Enter Nearcbus leading Calantba, Amelus^ 
Cbristalla^ Pbilema. 
Nearcbus. Great faire one, grace my hopes 
with any instance 
Of livery, from the allowance of your favour ; 
This little sparke. — 

[Attempts to take a ring from ber finger,"^ 
Calantha. A toy ! 

Near. Love feasts on toyes, 

For Cupid is a child — vouchsafe this bounty : 
It cannot [be deny'd] . 

CaL You shall not value, 25 

Sweet cozen, at a price what I count cheape ; 
So cheape, that let him take it who dares stoope 

And give it at next meeting to a mistresse : 
Shee'le thanke him for't, perhaps. 

Casts it to Itbocles. 

Amelus. The ring, sir, is 

The princesses ; I could have tooke it up. 30 

Itho. Leame manners, prethe. — To the 
blessed owner. 
Upon my knees — 

25 [be Jetty* J] Q, beny'd. 

220 drSnftnill^aR i^crr 

Near. Vair nwcj. 

CaL This is pretty 

I am, belike, a mistresse, — wcMubotis pfettj ! — 
Let the man keepe his fortune, since he foun 

He'f worthy on't, — On, cozen! 

Itho. Fcdlow, spaniell 

rie force 'ee to a fawning else. 

AmeU You dare not. 

Exeunt, Mameui Itb; ^ Armosi 

Arm. My lord, you were too forward. 
Itho. Looke 'ee, uncle 

Some such there are whose liberall contents 
Swarme without care in every sort of plenty; 
Who, after full repasts, can lay them downe 
To sleepe ; and they sleepe, uncle : in whic! 

Their very dreames present 'em choyce of plea 

Pleasures — observe me, uncle — of rare object 
Here heaps of gold, there increments of honors 
Now change of garments, then the votes o 

people 5 
Anon varieties of beauties, courting. 
In flatteries of the night, exchange of dalliance 
Yet these are still but dreames : give me felicit 
Of which my senses waking are partakers, 
A real], visible, materiall happinesse ; 

Scene!.] Wl^t IBtOlmt ^tatt 221 

And then, too, when I stagger in expectance 
Of the least comfort that can cherish life : — 
I saw it, sir, I saw it ; for it came 
From her owne hand. 

jfrm. The princesse threw it t'ee. 

Itho. True, and she said — well I remember 
what. 55 

Her cozen prince would beg it. 

jfrm. Yes, and parted 

In anger at your taking on't. 

Itho. Penthea ! 

Oh, thou hast pleaded with a powerfuU language ! 
I want a fee to gratifie thy myrit. 
But I will doe — 

jfrm. What is't you say ? 

Itho, In anger, 60 

In anger let him part ; for could his breath. 
Like whirlewinds, tosse such servile slaves as 

The dust his footsteps print into a vapour. 
It durst not stirre a haire of mine, it should not ; 
Fde rend it up by th' roots first. To be any 

thing 65 

Calantha smiles on, is to be a blessing 
More sacred than a petty — Prince of Argos 
Can wish to equall or in worth or title. 

jfrm. Containe your selfe, my lord : Ixion, 

222 tD^ IBrokeii tt^eait i^ctiv. 

To embrace Juno, bosom'd but a cloud, 7< 

And begat Centaures : 'tis an useful morall : 
Ambition hatch'd in clouds of meere opinion 
Proves but in birth a prodigie. 

Itho, I thanke 'ee ; 

Yet, with your licence, I should seeme unchar- 
To gentler fate, if rellishing the dainties 7 

Of a soules setled peace, I were so feeble 
Not to digest it. 

Arm, He deserves small trust 

Who is not privy counsellor to himselfe. 
[Re '"Renter Nearchusy Orgilus, and Amelus. 

Near. Brave me ? 

Org. Your excellence mistakes his 

temper ; 
For Ithocles in fashion of his mind 
Is beautiful!, soft, gentle, the cleare mirror 
Of absolute perfection. 

Jmel. Was't your modesty 

Term'd any of the prince his servants *' spaniell "? 
Your nurse sure taught you other language. 

Itho. Language ! 

Near. A gallant man at armes is here, a doctor ! 
In feats of chivalry, blunt and rough spoken. 
Vouchsafing not the fustian of civility. 
Which [less] rash spirits stile good manners. 

88 less. Supplied by G. 

Scene I.] tO^fft WtOtotl tftm 223 

Itho. Manners ! 

Org. No more, illustrious sir ; 'tis matchlesse 

Near, You might have understood who I am. 
Itho. Yes, 9^ 

I did; else — but the presence calm'd th* af- 
front ; 
Y'are cozen to the princesse. 

Near, , To the king too; 

A certaine instrument that lent supportance 
To your collossicke greatnesse — to that king too, 
You might have added. 

Itho. There is more divinity 95 

In beauty then in majesty. 

Jrm. O fie, fie ! 

Near, This odde youths pride turnes hereticke 
in loyalty. 
Sirrah ! low mushroms never rivall cedars. 

Exeunt Nearcbus ^ Amelus. 

Itho, Come backe ! What pittifuU dull thing 

am I 
So to be tamely scoulded at ? Come backe ! 100 
Let him come backe, and eccho once againe 
That scornefuU sound of mushrome ! Painted 

Like heralds coats, guilt o're with crownes and 


May bait a muzled lion. 

224 tIPlie IBrobnt i|?eait (act iv. 

Arm. Cozen, cozen. 

Thy tongue is not thy friend. 

Org. In point of honour loj 

Discretion knowes ; no bounds. Amelus told 

'Twas all about a little ring. 

Itbo. A ring 

The princesse threw away, and I tooke up : 
Admit she threw't to me, what arme of brasse 
Can snatch it hence ? No ; could a' grind the 

hoope \v 

To powder, a' might sooner reach my heart 
Then steale and weare one dust on*t. — Orgilus, 
I am extreamely wrong'd. 

Org. A ladies favour 

Is not to be so slighted. 

Itbo. Slighted ! 

Arm. Quiet 

These vaine unruly passions, which will render 

ye II 

Into a madnesse. 

Org. Griefes will have their vent. 

Enter Tecnicus. 

Arm. Welcome ; thou com'st in season, rev- 
erend man, 
To powre the balsome of a supplying patience 
Into the festering wound of ill-spent fury. 

Ii8 supplying. G-D, suppling. 

scEHE L] tl^^ JBtotitn ^tm 225 ^ 

Org, [aside'j. What makes he here? 

Tecnicus. The hurts are yet but mortaIl,i2o 

Which shortly will prove deadly. To the king, 
Armostes, see in safety thou deliver 
This seal'd up counsaile ; bid him with a con- 
Peruse the secrets of the gods. — O Sparta, 

Lacedemon ! double nam'd, but one 125 
In fate: when kingdomes reele, — marke well 

my saw, — 
Their heads must needs be giddy. Tell the king ' 
That henceforth he no more must enquire after 
My aged head ; Apollo wils it so ; 

1 am for Delphos. 

Arm. Not without some conference 130 

With our great master. 

Teen. Never more to see him ; 

A greater prince commands me. — Ithocles, 

When youth is ripe^ and age from time doth party 
The livelesse trunke shall wed the broken heart. 

Itho. What's this, if understood ? 

Teen. List, Orgilus;i35 

Remember what I told thee long before. 
These teares shall be my witnesse. 

Arm. 'Las, good man! 

I£0 but, G>D preserves, but suggests that *'not** may be 
die right word. 

226 tE^t Broten i}tm {act iv. 

Teen. Let crafi with curtesie a while conferre^ 
Revenge proves its owne executioner. 

Org. Darke sentences are for Apollo's priests; 140 
I am not Oedipus. 

Teen. My howre is come ; 

Cheare up the king ; farewell to all. — O Sparta, 
O Lacedemon! Exit Teen. 

Arm. If propheticke fire 

Have warm'd this old mans bosome, we might 

His words to fatall sense. 

Itho. Leave to the powers 145 

Above us the effects of their decrees ; 
My burthen lyes within me. Servile feares 
Prevent no great effects. — Divine Calantha ! 

Arm. The gods be still propitious ! — 

Exeunt: manet Org. 

Org. Something oddly 

The booke-man prated ; yet *a talk'd it weeping : 15® 

Let eraft with eurtesie a while conferred 

Revenge proves its owne executioner. 
Conne it again ; for what ? It shall not puzzle me ; 
'Tis dotage of a withered braine. — Penthea 
Forbad me not her presence ; I may see her, 155 
And gaze my fill : why see her then I may ; 
When, if I faint to speake, I must be silent. 

Exit Org. 

sciifB n.] tS^^e Broben iterant 227 

[SCENA SECUNDA. A room In Bassams' 


Enter Bassanes, Grausis, and Phulas. 

Bassanes. Pray, use your recreations ; all the 
I will expect is quietnesse amongst 'ee ; 
Take liberty at home, abroad, at all times, 
And in your charities appease the gods 
Whom I with my distractions have offended. 5 

Grausis. Faire blessings on thy heart ! 

Phulas [aside']. Here's a rare change; 

My lord, to cure the itch, is surely gelded ; 
The cuckold in conceit hath cast his homes. 

Bass, Betake 'ee to your severall occasions, 
And wherein I have heretofore beene faulty, 10 
Let your constructions mildly passe it over ; 
Henceforth Fie study reformation, — more 
I have not for employment. 

Grau, O, sweet man ! 

Thou art the very hony-combe of honesty. 

PbuL The garland of good-will. — Old lady, 
hold up 15 

Thy reverend snout, and trot behind me softly. 
As it beconies a moile of ancient carriage. 

Exeunt ; manet Bass, 

Bass, Beasts, onely capable of sense, enjoy 

228 QPiye Broten i}tm v^ iv. 

The benefit of food and ease with thankfulnesse ; 
Such silly creatures, with a grudging, kicke 

not 20 

Against the portion nature hath bestow'd ; 
But men endow'd with reason and the use 
Of reason, to distinguish from the chaffe 
Of abject scarscity the quintescence, 
Soule, and elixar of the earths abundance, 25 

The treasures of the sea, the ayre, nay, heaven, 
Repining at these glories of creation. 
Are verier beasts than beasts ; and of those beasts 
The worst am I ; I, who was made a monarch 
Of what a heart could wish for, a chast wife, 30 
Endevour'd what in me lay to pull downe 
That temple built for adoration onely. 
And level't in the dust of causelesse scandall. 
But, to redeeme a sacrilege so impious. 
Humility shall powre before the deities 35 

I have incenst, a largesse of more patience 
Then their displeased altars can require : 
No tempests of commotion shall disquiet 
The calmes of my composure. 

Eater Orgilus, 
Orgilus. I have found thee. 

Thou patron of more horrors then the bulke 40 
Of manhood, hoop'd about with ribs of iron. 
Can cramb within thy brest : Penthea, Bassanes, 

36 largesu, Q, largenote. 

scENEiL] tB^ iBrobnt ^tm 229 

Curst by thy jealousies, — more, by thy dotage, — 
Is left a prey to words. 

Bass. Exercise 

Your trials for addition to my pennance ; 45 

I am resolv'd. 

Org. Play not with misery 

Past cure : some angry minister of fate hath 
Depos'd the empresse of her soule, her reason, 
From its most proper throne ; but, what's the 

More new, I, I have seene it, and yet live ! 50 

Bass. You may delude my senses, not my 
'Tis anchored into a firme resolution ; 
Dalliance of mirth or wit can ne're unfixe it. 
Practise yet further. 

Org. May thy death of love to her 

Damne all thy comforts to a lasting fast 55 

From every joy of life ! Thou barren rocke. 
By thee we have bee [n] split in ken of harbour. 

Efifer Itbocles, Penthea her baire about her eares^ 

Phikma^ Christalla. 
Itbocles. Sister, looke up ; your Ithocles, your 
Speakes t'ee ; why doe you weepe ? Deere, turne 

not from me : 
Here is a killing sight ; lo, Bassanes, 60 

A lamentable object. 

230 XEflft IBroten 9ftm i^ci i 

Org. Man, dost see't ? 

Sports are more gamesome ; am I yet in men 

ment ? 
Why dost not laugh ? 

Bass, Divine and best of ladie 

Please to forget my out-rage ; mercy ever 
Cannot but lodge under a root so excellent : 
I have cast off that cruelty of frenzy 
Which once appeared [imposture], and the 

To cheat my sleeps of rest. 

Org, Was I in earnest 

Pen. Sure, if we were all sirens, we shou 
sing pittifully. 
And 'twere a comely musicke, when in parts 
One sung anothers knell : the turtle sighes 
When he hath lost his mate ; and yet some ss 
A' must be dead first : 'tis a fine deceit 
To passe away in a dreame ! indeed, I've slep 
With mine eyes open a great while. No fal 

Equals a broken faith ; there's not a haire 
Sticks on my head but like a leaden plummet 
It sinkes me to the grave : I must creepe thithe 
The journey is not long. 

Itho. But thou, Penthea, 

65 root. G-D, roof. 

67 [imffosture]. So G-D. Q, Impoiton. 

Scene n.] tE^t IBrObHt ^tSCt 23 1 

Hast many yeeres, I hope, to number yet, 80 

E're thou canst travcll that way. 

Bass. Let the [sun] first 

Be wrap'd up in an everlasting darknesse, 
Before the light of nature, chiefly form'd 
For the whole worlds delight, feele an ecclipsc 
So universal!. 

Org, Wisdome, looke *ee, begins 85 

To rave ! — art thou mad too, antiquity ? 

Pen. Since I was first a- wife, I might have beene 
Mother to many pretty pratling babes ; 
They would have smil'd when I smiPd, and, for 

I should have cry'd when they cry'd : — truly, 

brother, 90 

My father would have pick'd me out a husband. 
And then my little ones had beene no bastards ; 
But 'tis too late for me to marry now, 
I am past child-bearing; 'tis not my fault. 

Bass. Fall on me, if there be a burning Etna, 95 
And bury me in flames ! sweats hot as sulphure 
Boyle through my pores : affliction hath in store 
No torture like to this. 

Org. Behold a patience ! 

Lay by thy whyning gray dissimulation. 
Doe something worth a chronicle ; shew justice 100 
Upon the author of this mischiefe ; dig out 

81 sun, Q, swan. 

232 tn^ift IStoten 9ftm {act iv. 

The jealousies that hatch'd this thraldome first 
With thine owne ponyard : every anticke rapture 
Can roare as thine does. 

Itho. Orgilus, forbeare. 

Bass. Disturbe him not ; it is a talking motion loi 
Provided for my torment. What a foole am I 
To bawdy passion ! E're Tie speake a word, 
I will looke on and burst. 

Pen, I lov'd you once. 

Org. Thou didst, wrong'd creature, in despite 
of malice ; 
For it I love thee ever. 

Pen. Spare your hand ; ik 

Beleeve me, Tie not hurt it. 

Org. Paine my heart to . . . 

[P/».] Complaine not though I wring it 
hard : Fie kisse it ; 
O 'tis a fine soft palme: harke in thine earej 
Like whom doe I looke, prethe ? nay, no whis- 
Goodnesse ! we had beene happy : too much 

happinesse iii 

Will make folke proud, they say — but that is 
he J Poi/tts at ItbocUs. 

107 batvdy. So Q and 6. Changed by D in O-D to bandjf, 
III Paint my heart to. Q is corrupt here. G>-D omks paimt and 
reads My heart too. W, Pain my heart too. 

1 1 2-1 22 Complaine . . . itill *tis he, Q ff^^'^ ^^ speech to 


n.] tETj^ ]l5robnt t^att 233 

^.nd yet he paid for't home ; alas, his heart 

's crept into the cabinet of the princesse ; 

kVe shall have points and bridelaces. Remember 

^hen we last gather'd roses in the garden 120 

. found my wits ; but truly you lost yours : 

That's he, and still 'tis he. 

Itho, Poore soule, how idely 

ier fancies guide her tongue. 

Bass, [aside], Keepe in, vexation, 

\xiA breake not into clamour. 

Org. [aside]. She has tutor'd me ; 

lome power full inspiration checks my lazi- 

nesse. — 125 

^ow let me kisse your hand, griev'd beauty. 

Pen. Kisse it. 

Vlacke, alacke, his lips be wondrous cold ; 
!)eare soule, h'as lost his colour; have 'ee 

^L straying heart ? all crannies, every drop 
3f blood is turn'd to an amethist, 130 

iVhich married bachelours hang in their eares. 

Org. Peace usher her into Elizium ! — 
!f this be madnesse, madnesse is an oracle. 

Exit Org. 

Itho. Christalla, Philema, when slept my 
?er ravings are so wild ? 

Christalla. Sir, not these ten dayes.135 

234 tD^e IBrokm 9ftm iaci iv. 

Philetna, Wc watch by her continually ; be- 
Wc cannot any way pray her to eat. 

Bass, Oh — misery of miseries ! 

Pen, Take comfort; 

You may live well, and dye a good old man. 
By yea and nay, an oath not to be broken, i^ 
If you had joyn'd our hands once in the tem- 
'T was since my father dy'd, for had he liv*d 
He would have don't, — I must have call'd you 

Oh my wrack'd honour, ruin'd by those tyrants, 
A cruell brother and a desperate dotage ! M 

There is no peace left for a ravish'd wife 
Widdow'd by lawlesse marriage ; to all memory 
Penthea's, poore Penthea's, name is strumpeted : 
But since her blood was seasoned by the forfeit 
Of noble shame with mixtures of pollution, >5 
Her blood — 'tis just — be henceforth never 

With tast of sustenance! Starve; let that ful^ 

Whose plurisie hath sever'd faith and modesty — 
Forgive me : O, I faint ! 

Jrm, Be not so wilfull. 

Sweet neece, to worke thine owne destruction. 

Itho. Nature 15 

sciNE iL] XE^t JBtoten i}tm 235 

Will call her daughter monster, — what! not 

Refuse the onely ordinary meanes 
Which are ordain'd for life ? Be not, my sister, 
A murthresse to thy selfe. — Hear'st thou this, 

Bassanes ? 
Bass, Fo ! I am busie : for I have not thoughts 160 
Enow to thinke : all shall be well anon. 
'Tis rumbling in my head : there is a mastery 
In art to fatten and keepe smooth the outside, 
Yes, and to comfort up the vitall spirits 
Without the helpe of food; fumes or perfumes, 165 
Perfumes or fumes. Let her alone ; Tie search out 
The tricke on't. 

Pen, Lead me gently j heavens reward ye : 
Griefes are sure friends; they leave, without 

Nor cure nor comforts for a leprous soule. 

Exeunt the maids supporting Penthea, 

Bass. I grant t'ee ; and will put in practice 
instantly 170 

What you shall still admire : 'tis wonderfull, 
*Tis super singular, not to be matched ; 
Yet when I've don't, I've don't ; ye shall all 
thanke mee. Exit Bassanes, 

Arm, The sight is full of terror. 

Itbo. On my soule 

165 (2 ^^ Q^ place a comma zha food. 

236 tOPlft Btobnt tt^earc \^cr iv. 

Lyes such an infinite clogge of massie dul- 

nesse, 175 

As that I have not sense enough to feele it. — 
See, uncle, th'angry thing returnes againe ; 1 

Shall's welcome him with thunder? We are ] 
haunted, < 

And must use exorcisme to conjure downe 
This spirit of malevolence. 

jirm. Mildly, nephew. 180 

Enter Nearcbus and Amelus, 
Nearchus. I come not, sir, to chide your late 
Admitting that th'inurement to a roughnesse 
In souldiers of your yeares and fortunes, chiefly 
So lately prosperous, hath not yet shooke off 
The custome of the warre in houres of leisure; 185 
Nor shall you need excuse, since y* are to 

Account to that faire excellence, the princesse. 
Who in her private gallery expects it 
From your owne mouth alone : I am a messen- 
But to her pleasure. 

Itho. Excellent Nearchus, 190 

Be prince still of my services, and conquer 
Without the combat of dispute ; I honour 'ee. 
Near. The king is on a sudden indispos'd, 

1 77 tk* angry. So G-D. jQ, th' auguiy. 

scBNi iL] tlpft IBrokett iterant 237 

Physicians are call'd for ; 'twere fit, Armostes, 
You should be neere him. 

jfrm. Sir, I kisse your hands. 195 

Exeunt. Manent Nearchus ^ Amelus. 

Near. Amelus, I perceive Calantha's bosome 
Is warm'd with other fires then such as can 
Take strength from any fuell of the love 
I might addresse to her: young Ithocles, 
Or ever I mistake, is lord ascendant soo 

Of her devotions ; one, to speake him truly, 
In every disposition nobly fashioned. 

Amelus. But can your highnesse brooke to be 
so rivalM, 
Considering th' inequality of the persons ? 

Near. I can, Amelus ; for affections injured 205 
By tyrannic or rigour of compulsion. 
Like tempest-threatned trees unfirmely rooted, 
Ne're spring to timely growth : observe, for in- 
Life-spent Penthea and unhappy Orgilus. 

Amel. How does your grace determine ^ 

Near. To be jealous 210 

In publike of what privately I'le further ; 
And though they shall not know, yet they shall 
finde it. 

Exeunt 9mues. 

238 tE^^t IBroben i}tm (act iv. 

SCENA TERTIA. Jn apartment in the palace. 

Enter Hemopbil and Graneas as leading jimyclas, and 
placing bim in a cbayre, followed by Armostes 
Crotolon, and Propbilus. 

Amyclai. Our daughter is not neere ? 

Armostes. She is retired, sir, 

Into her gallery. 

Amy. Where *s the prince our cozen ? 

Prophilus. New walk'd into the grove, my lord. 

Amy. All leave us 

Except Armostes, and you, Crotolon; 
We would be private. 

Proph. Health unto your Majesty ! 

Exeunt Propbilus^ Hemopbil H Groneas. 

Amy. What ! Tecnicus is gone ? 

Arm. He is, to Delphos 5 

And to your royall hands presents this box. 

Amy. Unseale it, good Armostes ; therein lyes 
The secrets of the oracle ; out with it : 
Apollo live our patron! Read, Armostes. 

Arm. The plot in which the vine takes root 
Begins to dry from head to foot ; 
The stocke soone withering^ want of sap 
Doth cause to quaiU the budding grape : 
But from the neighboring ebne a dew 
Shall drop and feed the plot anew. 


cufE m.] tD^e IBroben i}tm 239 

j/my. That is the oracle : what exposition 
^akes the philosopher ? 
jirm. This brief one onely : 

The plot is Sparta y the dry*d vine the king; 
The quailing grape his daughter ; but the 


Of most importance y not to be reveaTd^ 
Is a neere prince^ the elme ; the rest con- 



Amy. Enough ; although the opening of this 
[s but it selfe a riddle, yet we construe 25 

How neere our lab'ring age drawes to a rest : 
But must Calantha quaile too? that young 

CJntimely budded ! I could mourne for her ; 
Her tendemesse hath yet deserv'd no rigor 
5o to be crost by fate. 

Arm. You misapply, sir, — 30 

With favour let me speake it, — what Apollo 
Hath clouded in hid sense : I here conjecture 
Her marriage with some neighboring prince, the 

Of which befriending elme shall ever strengthen 
Your subjects with a soveraignty of power. 35 

27 /0O t So G-D. Q, to ; no mark of punctuation. 

240 tElft IBtoben i}tm (act iv. 

Crotolon, Besides, most gracious lord, the pith 
of oracles 
Is to be then digested when th'events 
Expound their truth, not brought assoone to 

As utter'd ; Truth is child of Time ; and herein 
I finde no scruple, rather cause of comfort, 4 

With unity of kingdomes. 

Amy. May it prove so. 

For weale of this deare nation! — Where is 

Ithocles ? — 
Armostes, Crotolon, when this wither'd vine 
Of my fraile carkasse on the funerall pile 
Is fir'd into its ashes, let that young man 4 

Be hedg'd about still with your cares and loves ; 
Much owe I to his worth, much to his serv- 
ice. — 
Let such as wait come in now. 

Arm. All attend here! 

Enter Ithocles, Caiantha, Propbilus, Orgilus, 

Euphraneay Hemophil, and Graneas. 
Calantha. Deare sir! king! father! 
Ithocles. O, my royall master! 

Amy, Cleave not my heart, sweet twins of 
my life's solace, 5< 

With your fore-judging feares : there is no phy- 

So cunningly restorative to cherish 

csNz m.] wi^ IBroben i}tm 241 

The fall of age, or call backe youth and vigor, 
^s your consents in duty : I will shake ofF 
This languishing disease of time, to quicken 55 
i^resh pleasures in these drooping houres of sad- 

s faire Euphranea married yet to Prophilus ? 
CroL This morning, gracious lord. 
Orgilus. This very morning ; 

Vhich, with your highnesse leave, you may ob- 
serve too. 
3ur sister lookes, me thinks, mirthfuU and 

sprightly, 60 

^s if her chaster fancy could already 
i^xpound the riddle of her gaine in losing 
^ trifle maids know onely that they know not. 
^ish ! prethe, blush not ; 'tis but honest change 
3f fashion in the garment, loose for streight, 65 
Vnd so the modest maid is made a wife : 
Ihrewd businesse, is't not, sister ? 
Euphranea. You are pleasant. 

Amy. We thanke thee, Orgilus ; this mirth be- 
comes thee : 
Jut wherefore sits the c6urt in such a silence ? 
V wedding without revels is not seemely. y© 

CaL Your late indisposition, sir, forbade it. 
Jmy. Be it thy charge, Calantha, to set for- 
The bridall sports, to which I will be present, — 

242 tE^lft IBroben l^eait (act iv. 

If not, at least consenting. Mine owne Ithocles, 
I have done little for thee yet. 

Itho. Y*have built me 7 

To the full height I stand in. 

CaL Now or never 

May I propose a suit ? 

yfmy. Demand, and have it. 

CaL Pray, sir, give me this young man, and 
no further 
Account him yours then he deserves in all things 
To be thought worthy mine ; I will esteeme him 8( 
According to his merit. 

j/my. Still th'art my daughter, 

Still grow'st upon my heart. Give me thine hand; 
Calantha take thine owne ; in noble actions 
Thou'It find him firme and absolute. I would not 
Have parted with thee, Ithocles, to any ^i 

But to a mistresse who is all what I am. 

Itho. A change, great king, most wisht for, 
cause the sam[e]. 

CaL Th' art mine. — Have I now kept my 
word ? 

Itho. Divinely. 

Org. Rich fortunes, guard to favour of a 

76 N<no or never, G^D, [aside] Now or nerer ! — 
89 Rid . . . princesse, G-D^ Rich fortunes guard, the fiiTOur 
of a princess. fortuna. Q, fortuness. 

kxNE m.] Wlft IBroben l^eait 243 

R.ocke thee, brave man, in ever crowned plenty ; 90 
Sf * are minion of the time ; be thankful! for it. — 
'j/side."] Ho, here's a swinge in destiny — ap- 
parent ! 
The youth is up on tiptoe, yet may stumble. 
jfmy. On to your recreations. — Now con- 
vey me 
Unto my bed-chamber : none on his forehead 95 
W"ere a distempered looke. 
Omnes. The gods preserve *ee ! 

CaL [aside to IthJ], Sweet, be not from my 

Ith. [aside to CalJ]. My whole felicity. 

Exeunt carrying out the king ; Orgilus stayes 

Org. Shall I be bold, my lord ? 
Itho, Thou canst not, Orgilus; 

ZzW me thine owne, for Prophilus must hence- 
Be all thy sisters ; friendship, though it cease not xoo 
[n marriage, yet is oft at lesse command 
Then when a single freedome can dispose it. 
Org. Most right,, my most good lord, my 
most great lord. 
My gracious princely lord, — I might adde, 
Itho. Royall ! a subject royall ? 
Org. Why not, pray, sir ? 105 

244 tDlie IBtobm i}tm [act iv. 

The soveraignty of kingdomes in their nonage 
Stoop'd to desert, not birth; there's as much 

In clearenesse of affection as in puddle 
Of generation : you have conquer'd love 
Even in the loveliest ; if I greatly erre not, i 
The Sonne of Venus hath bequeathed his quiver 
To Ithocles his manage, by whose arrowes 
Calantha's brest is open'd. 

Itho. Can't be possible ? 

Org. I was my selfe a peece of suitor once, 
And forward in preferment too ; so forward, i 
That, speaking truth, I may without offence, sir, 
Presume to whisper that my hopes and, harke 'ee, 
My certainty of marriage stood assured 
With as firme footing, by your leave, as any's 
Now at this very instant — but — 

Itho. *Tis granted : r 

And for a league of privacy betweene us. 
Read o're my bosome and pertake a secret ; 
The princesse is contracted mine. 

Org. Still, why not ? 

I now applaud her wisdome; when your king- 
Stands seated in your will secure and setled, i 
I dare pronounce you will be a just monarch : 
Greece must admire and tremble. 

Itho. Then the sweetnesse 

Sons m.] ®]^ HBtOkm ^tStt 245 

Of SO imparadis'd a comfort, Orgilus ! 
It is to banquet with the gods. 

Org. The glory 

Of numerous children, potency of nobles, 13° 

Bent knees, hearts pavM to tread on ! 

Itho. With a friendship 

So deare, so fast as thine. 

Org. I am unfitting 

For office, but for service — 

Itho. Wee'U distinguish 

Our fortunes meerely in the title; partners 
In all respects else but the bed. 

Org. The bed ! 135 

Forefend it Joves owne jealousie, till lastly 
We slip downe in the common earth together ; 
And there our beds are equall, save some monu- 
To shew this was the king, and this the subject. 
List, what sad sounds are these ? — extremely 

sad ones. 140 

Itho. Sure from Penthea's lodgings. 

Org. Harke! a voyce too. 

So/t sad musicke. A song. 

Obf no more, no more, too late 

Sigbes are spent ; the burning tapers 

Of a life as chast as fate. 

Pure as are unwritten papers, 145 

246 Wtft IBtofcm It^nnx iaci iv. 

jire burnt out : no beat, no light 

Now remaines : ^tis ever nigbt. 
Love is dead ; let lovers eyes. 

Lock* din endlesse dreames, 

TV extremes of all extremes, i5( 

Ope no more, for now Love dyes. 

Now Love dyes, implying 
Loves martyrs must be ever, ever dying. 

Itho. Oh my misgiving heart ! 
Org. A horrid stilnesse 

Succeeds this deathfuU ayre; let's know the rea- 
son : 15: 
Tread softly; there is mystery in mourning. 


[SCENA QUART A. Apartment of Penthea in 

the palace.^ 

Enter Cbristalla and Pbilema, bringing in Penthea in 
a chaire, vaild; two other servants placing two 
chair es, one on the one side, and the other with an 
engine on the other. The maids sit downe at her 
feet mourning ; the servants goe out / meet them 
Ithocles and Orgilus. 

Servant [aside to Orgilus'\ . ^Tis done ; that 

on her right hand. 
Orgilus. Good: begone. 

[Exeunt servants."] 
Ithocles, Soft peace inrich this roome. 

kxNi iv.| tD^e IBroben l^eart 247 

Org. How fares the lady ? 

Philema. Dead! 

Christalla. Dead ! 

Phil. StarvM ! 

Chris. Starv'd ! 

Itho. Me miserable ! 

Org. Tell us 

How parted she from life ? 

Phil. She caird for musicke, 

\nd begg'd some gentle voyce to tune a fare- 
well 5 
To life and griefes : Christalla touch'd the lute ; 
[ wept the funerall song. 

Chris. Which scarce was ended, 

But her last breath seal'd up these hollow sounds, 
* O cruell Ithocles and injur'd Orgilus ! " 
5o downe she drew her vaile, so dy'd. 

Itho. So dy*d ! xo 

Org. Up ! you are messengers of death ; goe 
from us; 
flere*s woe enough to court without a prompter. 
\way ; and, harke ye, till you see us next, 
Mo sillable that she is dead. — Away ! 

Exeunt Phil, and Cbri. 
JCeepe a smooth brow. — My lord, — 

Itho. Mine onely sister ! 15 

\nother is not left me. 

Org. Take that chayre ; 

248 Wfft JBimttn iftm [activ. 

rie seat me here in this : betweene us sits 
The object of our sorrowes ; some few teares 
Wee'U part among us ; I perhaps can mixe 
One lamentable story to prepare *em. m 

There, there, sit there, my lord, 

Itho. Yes, as you please. 

ItbocUs sits dotvne, and is catcbt in the engine. 
What meanes this treacheiy ? 

Org. Caught, you are caught, 

Young master : 'tis thy throne of coronation, 
Thou foole of greatenesse ! See, I take this vaile off; 
Survey a beauty wither'd by the flames s$ 

Of an insulting Phaeton, her brother. 

Itho. Thou meanest to kill me basely. 

Org. I foreknew 

The last act of her life, and train'd thee hither 
To sacrifice a tyrant to a turtle. 
You dream't of kingdomes, did *ee ? how to 

bosome 3® 

The delicacies of a youngling princesse ; 
How with this nod to grace that subtill courtier, 
How with that frowne to make this noble tremble. 
And so forth ; whiles Penthea's grones and tor- 
Her agonies, her miseries, afflictions, 35 

Ne're toucht upon your thought ; as for my in- 
Alas, they were beneath your royall pitty j 

Scene IV.] tS!^t HBtOkm t^tait 249 

But yet they liv'd, thou proud man, to confound 

Behold thy fate, this Steele ! 

It ho. Strike home! A courage 

As keene as thy revenge shall give it welcome : 40 
But, prethe, faint not ; if the wound close up, 
Tent it with double force, and search it deeply. 
Thou look'st that I should whine and beg com- 
As loath to leave the vainnesse of my glories ; 
A statelier resolution armes my confidence, 45 

To cozen thee of honour j neither could I, 
With equall tryall of unequall fortune. 
By hazard of a duell ; 'twere a bravery 
Too mighty for a slave intending murther : 
On to the execution, and inherit 50 

A conflict with thy horrors. 

Org. By Apollo, 

Thou talk'st a goodly language ! for requitall, 
I will report thee to thy mistresse richly : 
And take this peace along; some few short minutes 
Determin'd, my resolves shall quickly follow 55 
Thy wrathfuU ghost ; then, if we tug for mastery, 
Pentheas sacred eyes shall lend new courage. 
Give me thy hand ; be healthfuU in thy parting 
From lost mortality ! thus, thus, I free it. 

StaSs him. 

59 Stabs him, Q, Kils Aim. 

250 t!P|ie IBtoben l|?eait [activ. 

Itho. Yet, yet, I scorne to shrinke. 
Org. Keepe up thy spirit : 60 

I will be gentle even in blood ; to linger 
Paine, which I strive to cure, were to be cruel!. 

[Stabs bim againJ] 
Itho. Nimble in vengeance, I forgive thee; 
Safety, with best successe. O may it prosper! — 
Penthea, by thy side thy brother bleeds ; ^ 

The earnest of his wrongs to thy forc'd faith. 
Thoughts of ambition, or delitious banquet 
With beauty, youth, and love, together perish 
In my last breath, which on the sacred Altar 
Of a long look'd for peace — now — moves — to 
heaven. 7c 


Org. Farewell, faire spring of manhood; 

henceforth welcome 
Best expectation of a noble suiFrance : 
rie locke the bodies safe, till what must follow 
Shall be approved. — Sweet twins, shine stars 

for ever ! 
In vaine they build their hopes, whose life is 

shame ; y 

No monument lasts but a happy name. 

Exit Orgilus. 


A room in Bassanes* house. 

Enter Bassanes alone. 

Bassanes. Athens, to Athens I have sent, the 
Of Greece for learning and the fount of knowl- 
For here in Sparta there's not left amongst us 
One wise man to direct j we're all turn'd mad- 
'Tis said Apollo is the god of herbs ; 5 

Then certainly he knowes the vertue of 'em : 
To Delphos I have sent to ; if there can be 
A helpe for nature, we are sure yet. 

Enter Orgilus. 
Orgilus. Honour 

Attend thy counsels ever ! 

Bass. I beseech thee 

With all my heart, let me goe from thee quietly ; xo 
[ will not ought to doe with thee, of all men. 
The doublers of a hare, or, in a morning, 
Salutes from a splay-footed witch, to drop 
Three drops of blood at th'nose just and no 

7 sent to. G-D, sent too. X2 doublers. G^D, doubles. 

252 tEUft IBroben i}tm (act v 

Croaking of ravens, or the screech of owles, i 
Are not so boading mischiefe as thy crossing 
My private meditations : shun me, prethe ; 
And if I cannot love thee hartily, 
rie love thee as well as I can. 

Org, Noble Bassanes, 

Mistake me not. 

Bass. Phew ! Then we shall be troubled, i 
Thou wert ordain 'd my plague, heaven make 

me thankfuU; 
And give me patience too, heaven, I beseech 
Org. Accept a league of amity ; for hence- 
I vow by my best Genius, in a sillable. 
Never to speake vexation ; I will study »j 

Service and friendship with a zealous sorrow 
For my past incivility towards *ee. 

Bass. Heydey ! good words, good words ! I 
must beleeve 'em. 
And be a coxcombe for my labor. 

Org. Use not 

So hard a language; your misdoubt is cause- 

lesse : i^ 

For instance : if you promise to put on 
A constancy of patience, such a patience 
As chronicle or history ne're mentioned. 
As followes not example, but shall stand 

scENiL] tS^l^ HBrofcnt i|?eare 253 

A wonder and a theame for imitation, 35 

The first, the index pointing to a second, 
I will acquaint 'ee with an unmatch'd secret 
Whose knowledge to your griefes shall set a 
Bass. Thou canst not, Orgilus; 'tis in the 
Of the gods onely ; yet, for satisfaction, 40 

Because I note an earnest in thine utterance, 
Unforc'd and naturally free, be resolute 
The virgin bayes shall not withstand the light- 
With a more carelesse danger than my con- 
The full of thy relation ; could it move 45 

Distraction in a senselesse marble statue, 
It should finde me a rocke : I doe expect now 
Some truth of unheard moment. 

Org. To your patience 

You must adde privacie, as strong in silence 
As mysteries lock'd up in Joves owne bosome. 50 

Bass. A skull hid in the earth a treble age, 
Shall sooner prate. 

Org. Lastly, to such direction 

As the severity of a glorious action 
Deserves to lead your wisdome and your judge- 
You ought to yeeld obedience. 

254 ^t IBrofcnt iftm iact v. 

Bass. With assurance 5 

Of will and thankfulnesse. 

Org, With manly courage 

Please then to follow me. 

Bass. Where e're, I feare not. 

Exeunt omnes. 

SCAENE 2. \J room of staU in the palace."] 

Lowd musicke. Enter Groneas and Hemopbil leading 
Eupbranea ; Cbristalla and Pbilema leading Pro- 
philus; Near chus supporting Cahntha ; Crotolon^ 
and Amelus. Cease loud musicke; all make a 

Calantha. We misse our servant Ithocles and 
Orgilus ; 
On whom attend they ? 

Crotolon. My sonne, gracious princesse, 

Whisper'd some new device, to which these 

Should be but usher; wherein I conceive 
Lord Ithocles and he himselfe are actors. 

Cal. A faire excuse for absence: as for 
Delights to him are troublesome \ Armostes 
Is with the king ? 

Crot. He is. 

Cal. On to the dance ! 

cENi u.] wift TUStoim Ideate 255 

Deare cozen, hand you the bride; the bride- 

groome must be 
[ntrusted to my courtship : be not jealous, lo 

Euphranea ; I shall scarcely prove a temptresse. 
Fall to our dance. 

Musicke. Nearcbus dances with Eupbranea^ Propbilus 
taitb Calantba, Cbristallawitb Hemopbil, Pbilema 
loitb Groneas, Dance tbe first cbange ; during 
wbicbf enter Armostes. 

Armostes. The king your father's dead. 

In Calantba^s eare, 

CaL To the other change. 

Arm, Is't possible ? 

Dance againe. Enter Bassanes, 

Basshnes [whispers Gz/.] . O, madam ! 

Penthea, poore Penthea's starv'd. 

CaL Beshrew thee ! 

Lead to the next. 

Bass. Amazement duls my senses. 15 

Dance againe. Enter Orgilus, 
Orgilus [whispers CaL"]. Brave Ithocles is 

murther'd, murtherM cruelly. 
CaL How dull this musicke sounds ! strike 
up more sprightly ; 
Our footings are not active like our heart, 
Which treads the nimbler measure. 

Org. I am thunder-strooke. 

9 Deare, G-D omits. 

256 wift IBrokni iftm ' v^ 

Last change. Cease musicke. 

CaL So, let us breath a while : — hath i 
' this motion 
Rais'd fresher colour on your cheeks ? 

Near, Sweet princes 

A perfect purity of blood enamels 
The beauty of your white. 

CaL We all looke cheerful! 

And, cozen, 'tis, me thinks, a rare presumpti 
In any who prefers our lawful! pleasures 
Before their owne sowre censure, to interrup 
The custome of this ceremony bluntly. 

Near. None dares, lady. 

CaL Yes, yes ; some hollow voyce delive 
to me 
How that the king was dead. 

jfrm. The king is dej 

That fatall newes was mine ; for in mine arm 
He breath'd his last, and with his crowne I 

queath'd 'ee 
Your mothers wedding ring, which here I tend 

Crot. Most strange ! 

CaL Peace crown his ashc 

We are queen, then. 

Near. Long live Calantha ! Sparta's sovera 
queene ! 

Omnes. Long live the queene ! 

21 your. G~D, our. 

Scene H] flOft IBrOfcTn iftStt 25 7 

Cc?/. What whispered Bassanes ? 

Bass. That my Penthea, miserable soule, 
Was starvM to death. 

CaL Shee's happy ; she hath finishM 

A long and painefuU progresse. — A third mur- 

mure 4^ 

Pierc'd mine unwilling eares. 

Org. That Ithocles 

Was murther'd ; rather butcher'd, had not bravery 
Of an undaunted spirit, conquering terror, 
Proclaim'd his last act triumph over ruine. 

jfrm. How ! murther'd ! 

CaL By whose hand ? 

Org. By mine ; this weapon 45 

Was instrument to my revenge : the reasons 
Are just and knowne ; quit him of these, and 

Never liv*d gentleman of greater merit, 
Hope, or abiliment to steere a kingdome. 

Crot. Fye, Orgilus ! 

Euphranea. Fye, brother ! 

Cal. You have done it. 50 

Bass. How it was done let him report, the 
Of whose alleagance to our lawes doth covet 
Rigour of justice; but that done it is 
Mine eyes have beene an evidence of credit 
Too sure to be convinc'd. Armostes, rent not 55 

258 tE^ Wtttea ftftm iactv. 

Thine arteries with hearing the bare circum- 
Of these calamities : thou'st lost a nephew, 
A neece, and I a wife : continue man still ; 
Make me the patteme of digesting evils. 
Who can out-live my mighty ones, not shrink- 
At such a pressure as would sinke a soule 
Into what's .most of death, the worst of horrors. 
But I have seal'd a covenant with sadnesse. 
And enter'd into bonds without condition 
To stand these tempests calmely ; marke me, 

I doe not shed a teare, not for Penthea ! 
Excellent misery ! 

CaL We begin our reigne 

With a first act of justice: thy confession. 
Unhappy Orgilus, doomes thee a sentence ; 
But yet thy fathers or thy sisters presence 
Shall be excus'd : give, Crotolon, a blessing 
To thy lost Sonne : Euphranea, take a farewell. 
And both be gone. 

CroL [to OrgJ]. Confirme thee, noble sorrow. 
In worthy resolution. 

Euph. Could my teares speake. 

My griefes were sleight. 

Org. All goodnesse dwell amongst yee : 

75 goodnesse. Q, gooddc 

Sam n.] tIPiie TBvotxn Ideate 259 

Enjoj; my sister, Prophilus ; my vengeance 
Aym'd never at thy prejudice. 

CaL Now withdraw. 

Exeunt Crotolon, Prophilus Cff Eupbranea. 

Bloody relator of thy staines in blood, 

For that thou hast reported him whose fortunes 

And life by thee are both at once snatch'd from 

him, 80 

With honourable mention, make thy choyce 
Of what death likes thee best ; there's all our 

But to excuse delayes, let me, deare cozen, 
Intreat you and these lords see execution 
Instant before 'ee part. 

• Near. Your will commands us. 85 

Org. One suit, just queene, my last ; vouch- 
safe your clemency 
That by no common hand I be divided 
From this my humble frailty. 

Cal. To their wisdomes 

Who are to be spectators of thine end 
I make the reference : those that are dead 90 

Are dead ; had they not now dy'd, of necessity 
They must have payd the debt they ow'd to 

One time or other. — Use dispatch, my lords \ 
Wee'll suddenly prepare our coronation. 

Exeunt Calantba, Pbilema, Cbristalla. 

26o Wft JBtfittn ^rwx (actv. 

Jrm. 'Tis strange these tragedies should never I 
touch on 95 ' 

Her female pitty. 

Bass. She has a masculine spirit : 

And wherefore should I pule, and, like a girle. 
Put finger in the eye ? let's be all toughnesse, 
Without distinction betwixt sex and sex. 

Near. Now, Orgilus, thy choyce. 

Org. To bleed to death. loo 

jfrm. The executioner ? 

Org. My selfe, no surgeon ; 

I am well skilled in letting blood. Bind fast 
This arme, that so the pipes may from their con- 
Convey a full streame. Here's a skilfull instru- 
Onely I am a beggar to some charity 105 

To speed me in this execution 
By lending th'other pricke to th'tother arme. 
When this is bubling life out. 

Bass. I am for *ee. 

It most concernes my art, my care, my credit ; 
Quicke, fillet both his armes. 

Org. Gramercy, friendship ! no 

Such curtesies are reall which flow cheerefully 
Without an expectation of requitall. 
Reach me a stafFe in this hand. If a pronenesse 

no Ah. Q, this. 112 expectadtm. Q, ezpectioii. 

tcENs n.| (B^ iBrofcm t^earc 261 

3r custome in my nature from my cradle 
Sad beene inclin'd to fierce and eager blood- 
shed, 115 
\ coward guilt, hid in a coward quaking, 
IVould have betrayM [my] fame to ignoble flight 
\nd vagabond pursuit of dreadfull safety : 
3ut looke upon my steddinesse, and scorne not 
The sicknesse of my fortune, which since Bas- 

sanes 120 

IVas husband to Penthea had laine bed-rid : 
IVe trifle time in words : thus I shew cunning 
[n opening of a veine too full, too lively. 
Arm. Desperate courage ! 
Org, Honourable infamy ! 

HemophiL I tremble at the sight. 
Groneas. Would I were loose! 125 

Bass. It sparkles like a lusty wine new 
broacht ; 
The vessell must be sound from which it is- 
[jraspe hard this other sticke: I'le be as nimble — 
But prethe, looke not pale — have at 'ee ! stretch 

Thine arme with vigor and unshooke vertue. 130 

[Opens the vein."^ 

117 betray* d my fame, Q omits my, G-D, betray' d me. 
124 Honourable infamy. So Q. G-D gives this speech to Near- 
130 unshooke. G-D, un8hak[en]. 

Good ! O, I envy not a rivall fitted 

To conquer in extremities ; this pastime 

Appearcs majesticall : some high tun'd poem 

Hereafter shall deliver to posterity 

The writers glory and his subjects triumph. v 

How is't man ? droope not yet. 

Org, I feele no palsies: 

On a paire royall doe I wait in death ; 
My soveraigne, as his liegeman; on my mistresse, 
As a devoted servant; and on Ithocles, 
As if no brave, yet no unworthy enemy : i 

Nor did I use an engine to intrap 
His life, out of a slavish feare to combate 
Youth, strength, or cunning, but for that I durst 

Ingage the goodnesse of a cause on fortune, 
By which his name might have out-fac'd my 

vengeance. j 

Oh, Tecnicus, inspired with Phoebus fire ! 
I call to mind thy augury, 'twas perfect ; 
Revenge proves its owne executioner. 
When feeble man is bending to his mother. 
The dust 'a was first fram'd on, thus he totters, i 
Bass. Life's fountaine is dry'd up. 
Org. So falls the standards 

Of my prerogative in being a creature! 
A mist hangs o're mine eyes ; the sun's bright 


Scene n.] tIP|ie IBrofcnt t^iait 263 

Is clouded in an everlasting shadow : 

Welcome thou yce that sit'st about my heart, 155 

No heat can ever thaw thee. Dyes. 

Near. Speech hath left him. 

Bass. A' has shooke hands with time: his 
funerall urne 
Shall be my charge : remove the bloodlesse bodie. 
The coronation must require attendance; 
That past, my few dayes can be but one mourn- 
ing. Exeunt, 160 

[SCENA TERTI A. J temple.] 

An altar covered with white s two lights of virgin 
wax. Musicke of recorders; during which enter 
foure bearing Ithocles on a hea [r] se or in a chair e, 
in a rich robe, and a crowne on his bead ; place him 
on one side of the altar. After him enter Calantha 
in a white robe and crown* d; Eupbranea, Phi- 
lema, Christalla in white ; Nearchusy Armostes, 
Crotolon, Prophilus, Amelusy Bassanes, Hemopbil, 
and Groneas. Calantha goes and kneeles before 
the altar, the rest stand off, the women kneeling 
behind. Cease recorders during her devotions. 
Sof\f\e musicke. Calantha and the rest rise, do* 
ing obeysance to the altar. 

Calantha. Our orisons are heard ; the gods are 
Now tell me, you whose loyalties payes tribute 

264 (B^ ISrokm 9}tm iactv. 

To us your lawfull soveraigne, how unskilfiill 

Your duties or obedience is to render 

Subjection to the scepter of a virgin. 

Who have beene ever fortunate in princes 

Of masculine and stirring composition. 

A woman has enough to goveme wisely 

Her owne demeanours, passions, and divisions. 

A nation warlike and inur'd to practice 

Of policy and labour cannot brooke 

A feminate authority : we therefore 

Command your counsaile, how you may advise 

In choosing of a husband whose abilities 
Can better guide this kingdome. 

Nearcbus. Royall lady. 

Your law is in your will. 

Armostes. We have seene tokens 

Of constancy too lately to mistrust it. 

Crotobn. Yet if your highnesse settle on a 
By your owne judgement both allow'd and lik'd 

Sparta may grow in power, and proceed 
To an increasing height. 

Cal. Hold you the same minde ? 

Bass, Alas, great mistris, reason is so clouded 
With the thicke darkenesse of my infinite woes 

23 infinite. Q, infiiiil iM, 

cm m.] tIPiie IBrofcnt li^earc 265 

That I forecast nor dangers, hopes, or safety, 
jive me some corner of the world to weare out as 
The remnant of the minutes I must number, 
Vhere I may heare no sounds but sad com- 
)f virgins who have lost contracted partners ; 
)f husbands howling that their wives were rav- 

)y some untimely fate ; of friends divided 30 

iy churlish opposition ; or of fathers 
rVeeping upon their childrens slaughtered car- 
casses ; 
!)r daughters groaning ore their fathers hearses ; 
\.nd I can dwell there, and with these keepe 

Vs musicall as theirs. What can you looke for 35 
"rom an old, foolish, peevish, doting man 
3ut crasinesse of age ? 

Cal. Cozen of Argos. 

Near. Madam. 

Cal. Were I presently 

To choose you for my lord. He open freely 
iVhat articles I would propose to treat on • 40 
Jefore our marriage. 

Near. Name them, vertuous lady. 

Cal. I would presume you would retaine the 
3f Sparta in her owne bounds ; then in Argos 

266 tD^ IBrofcm iftm (actv. 

Armostes might be viceroy ; in Messene 
Might Crotolon beare sway; and Bassanes — 4 

Bass. I, queene ! alas, what I ? 

Cal. Be Sparta's marshal! : 

The multitudes of high imployments could not 
But set a peace to private griefes. These gen- 
Groneas and Hemophil, with worthy pensions 
Should wait upon your person in your chamber. 5 
I would bestow Christalla on Amelus, 
Shee'll prove a constant wife; and Philema 
Should into Vesta's temple. 

Bass. This is a testament! 

It sounds not like conditions on a marriage. 

Near. All this should be performed. 

Cal. Lastly, for Prophilus, f 

He should be, cozen, solemnly invested 
In all those honors, titles, and preferments 
Which his deare friend and my neglected hus- 
Too short a time enjoy'd. 

Prophilus. I am unworthy 

To live in your remembrance. 

Euphranea. Excellent lady! i 

Near. Madam, what meanes that word, ^ ne- 
glected husband"? 

Cal. Forgive me : now I turne to thee, thou 

2m m.] ta^ift IBrofcnt t^eatc 267 

)f my contracted lord ! Beare witnesse all, 
put my mother['s] wedding ring upon 
lis finger; 'twas my fathers last bequest. 65 

Thus I new marry him whose wife I am ) 
)eath shall not separate us. O my lords, 
but deceiv'd your eyes with anticke gesture, 
Vhen one newes straight came hudling on an- 
)f death, and death, and death ; still I danc'd 

forward ; 70 

tut it strooke home, and here, and in an in- 
te such meere women, who with shreeks and 

yan vow a present end to all their sorrowes, 
Tet live to vow new pleasures, and out-live 

them : 
They are the silent griefes which cut the hart- 
strings ; 75 
^et me dye smiling. 
Near. 'Tis a truth too ominous. 
CaL One kisse on these cold lips, my last ! 
Cracke, cracke ! 
Irgos now's Sparta's king. Command the voyces 
Vhich wait at th' altar now to sing the song 
fitted for my end. 
Near. Sirs, the song ! 80 

74 vow, G-D substitutes court. 

268 tEnj^e HBroknt i^^eart (actv. 

A Song 

Ail, GlorUs, pleasures, pomps, delights, and ease. 

Can but please 
[7"-^'] outward senses, when the mind 
Is not untroubled, or by peace refined. 

1 Crownes may flourish and decay. 
Beauties shine, but fade away, 

2 Touth may revell, yet it must 
Lye downe in a bed of dust* 

3 Earthly honors flow and wast. 

Time alone doth change and last, \ 

All, Sorrow es mingled with contents prepare 

Rest for care ; 
Love onely reignes in death : though art 
Can find no comfort for a broken heart, 

\Calantha dies,"] 

Arm, Looke to the queene. 

Bass, Her heart is broke indeed. < 

O royall maid, would thou hadst mist this 

part ! 
Yet 'twas a brave one : I must weepe to see 
Her smile in death. 

Arm, Wise Tecnicus ! thus said he : 

When youth is ripe^ and age from time doth part ^ 
The livelesse trunke shall wed the broken heart, k 

'Tis here fulfiU'd. 

^3 ^^*' Q is defective in printing here. 
84 /* not. G-D, Is [or]. 

Scene IILJ WIft WtOtitn ^tUtt 269 

Near, I am your king. 

Omnes. Long live 

Nearchus, King of Sparta ! 

Near. Her last will 

Shall never be digrest from : wait in order 
Upon these faithfuU lovers as becomes us. 

The counsels of the gods are never knowne, 105 

Till men can call th' effects of them their 



Where noble judgements and clear e eyes are fix*d 
To grace endevour^ there sits truth not mix d 
With ignorance ; those censures may command 
Beleefe which talke not till they understand. 
Let some say^ '' This was flat" ; some^ '' Here the 

Fell from its height ** ; Another that " the meanc 
Was ill observ'd in such a growing passion 
As it transcended either state or fashion": 
Some few may cry^ " 'Twas pretty well," or sOy 
*' But, — " and there shrugge in silence : yet wi 

Our writers ayme was in the whole addrest 
Well to deserve of ally hut please the best; 
Which grantedy by tV allowance of this straine 
THE BROKEN HEART may be piec't uf 



j^ejs to Ci^e 'Bvo&en ^tavt 

For the meaning of angle ivords see the Glossary, 

William, Lord Crayen. Born in 1606, Craven entered as 
a commoner at Trini^ College, Oxford, in 1623, but before he was 
twenty he was enlisted in the service of the Prince of Orange. He 
gained some military dutinction under Maurice* and his successor 
Frederick Henry, and on returning to £ngland was knighted by 
Charles I, 4 March, 1627. Eight days later he was created Baron 
Craven of Hampsted Marshall, and not long afterward was named 
a member of the permanent council of war. In 163 1 he was one 
of the conmianders of the English forces sent to the aid of Gusta- 
Yus Adolphus. In 1 632 he was wounded at the siege of Kreuznach, 
where he distinguished himself by his valor. Returning to England, 
he was placed. May 12th, 1633, on the council of Wales, and on 
the 3 ist of August his university created him Master of Arts. It 
would appear that Ford's dedication to him of The Broken Heart in 
this same year was part of a general welcome accorded to a roman- 
tic young hero. There is a tradition that Lord Craven was married 
to die Queen of Bohemia, daughter to James I; it b certain that 
he displayed a generous and life-long attachment to her cause. 

For further details, see the Dictionary of National Biography. 

138, 16. a truth. In the quarto a, and the initial /, are capital- 
ized and all the letters are piint»i in the blackest and most emphatic 
type. Similar assurance is given on the title page ofPerkin Warbecky 
which is called <<a strange truth**; and on the title page of the 
Witch of Edmonton — "a known true story.** 

147, 43-4. He . . . fixt. Cf. The Sun^s Darling, v, i : 

** O, may you all, Hke stars, while swift time moves, 
Stand fix*d in firmaments of blest content.** 

148, 66. proyinciall garland. ** The wreath (of laurel) 
which she had prepared; and which the ancients conferred on those 

272 i^te^ 

who, like Idiocies, had added z province to the empire.** Giffbrd. 
Weber compared the passage in Hamlet, m, ii, where Provincial 
means of Provence; the Oxford Englith Dictionary adopts this 
interpretation of the passage in The Broken Heart. 

Z49> 79-Si- Whom heayen . . . madding. Cf. The 

Sun^s Darling, iv, i : 

'* Whom the creatures 
Of every age and quality poet madding 
From land and sea to meet 
Shall wait upon thy nod. Fortune and Cupid.** 

149, 89. These fit sleights. This slighting language suit- 
able to slight services. 

151, 125. I haye not put my loye to use. The lan- 
guage of money-lenders : I have not lent my love to any one, hop- 
ing returns. 

Z52> 132- In forma pauperis. In the character of a poor 
man. *^ Paupers, or such as will swear themselves not worth five 
pounds, are to have original writs and subpoenas gratis, and coun- 
sel and attorney assigned them without fee, and are excused from 
paying costs when plaintiff.** W. C. Ander8on*8 Dictionary of 

154, 21-2. malice of present hopes. The misfortones 
which my present hopes have met. 

159, 116. Mew I — asburd I " A term of the schools, and 
is used when ^se conclusions are illo^cally deduced from the op- 
ponent's premises.** GifFord. 

i59> 117* The metaphysicks are but speculations. 

Compare with this and the preceding statement about philosophy 
Bacon* 8 arraignment of the << degenerate learning** of the school- 
men in the first book of the Advancement of Learning ; " For the 
wit and mind of man, if it work upon matter, which is the con- 
templation of the creatures of God, worketh according to the stufi^, 
and is limited thereby ; but if it work upon itself, m the spider 
worketh his web, then it is endless, and brings finth indeed cxA>- 
webs of learning, admirable for the fineness of thread and work, 
but of no substance or profit.** Bacon*s Works^ London, 1902, 

pp. 1^1-Z^^. 

i^tetf 273 

163, I. I '11 have that window . . . dam'd up. The 

parallelism of the situations makes one suspect thb to be an echo 
<^ ** First, I will have this wicked light damned up,** Volpone^ n, 

163, 5-6. the deformed bear-whelpe . . . into the act. 

Cf. Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy ^ London, 1907, vol. i, p. 30: 
'< I must for that cause do my business myself, and was therefore 
enforced, as a Bear doth her whelps, to bring forth this confused 
lump, I had not time to lick it into form, as she doth her young 
ones. * * This notion b of hoary antiquity : see Sir Thomas Browne's 
Pseudodoxia Epidemica^ bk. iii, chap. 6. 

164, 26-7. the head Which they haye branch'd. An 

allusion to the ^miliar notion that horns grow on the forehead of a 
man whose wife has been unfaithful to him. 

165, 45-6. the king . . . gray beard. This piece of 
news is curiously matched as a specimen of court gossip by a passage 
in a letter from the Rev. Jos. Mead to Sir Martin StuteviUe, dated at 
Christ's College, Feb. 22, 1 627-8 : << On Thursday was sennight, his 
grace's second heir was christened at Wallingford House. . . . His 
majesty came hither apparelled in a long soldier's coat, all covered 
with gold lace, and his hair all gaufred and frizzled, which he never 
used before." The whole passage on news, however, seems mod- 
eled on VolponCy 11, i. 

168, 103-5. This house, methinks, . . . Nearer the 

court. Apparentiy an echo of Women Beivare Women^ in, i : 

" Methinks this house stands nothing to my mind ; 
I 'd have some pleasant lodging i' the high street, sir; 
Or if 'twere near the court, sir, that were much better." 

177-8, 1 1 7-1 25. Brothers and sisters ... Is in re- 
quest. In Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy (part iii, sect, m, 
mem. u), the character of the morbidly jealous man is very mi- 
nutely analyzed: << He will sometimes sigh, weep, sob for anger . . . 
swear and belie, slander any man, curse, threaten, brawl, scold, fight; 
and sometimes again flatter, and speak fair, ask forgiveness, kiss and 
coll, condenm his rashness and folly, vow, protest and swear he will 
never do so again; and then eftsoons, impatient as he is, rave, roar, 
and lay about him like a madman ... so he continues off and on. 

274 i^te0 

as the toy takes him . . . accusing and suspecting not strangen only, 
but Brothers and Sisters, Fathers and Mothers, nearest and dearest 
friends." That this description so accurately applies to Bassanes is 
probably not accidental. The influence of Burton^s treatise would 
sufficiently explain what Gifford looked upon as unnatural inconsbt- 
encies in the character of Bassanes. 

z8o, 21-4. What heayen . . . perfection? Thissend- 
ment may profitably be compared with a passage in Ford*s Honour 
Triumphant : <* The self alone means, therefore, that were to be 
ordained for a provocation and incitement to livelihood of manhood 
was the quintessence, rarity, yea, rare quintessence of divine aston- 
ishment. Beauty.** Works^ vol. in, p. 352. 

185, 125. Politicke French. It is difficult to understand 
where Orgilus acquired this tongue. 

196,109. My treasons. Forasubject to aspire to the hand 
of the heir to the throne might be construed as treasonable. 

198, 149-150. Franks . . . swine-security. An allu- 
sion * * to the small enclosures (franks^ as distinguished from styes) 
in which boars were ^ttened.** Gifford. 

219, 21-2. grace my hopes . . . liyery. Give me some 

badge to wear as a sign that I am enrolled as your servant. 

223, 102-4. Painted colts . . . lion. <*Our old writers 
used colt ... for a compound of rudeness and folly. ... It would 
seem that there is also an allusion to some allegorical representation 
of this kind in < the painted cloth. * ** Gifford. It was a popular be- 
lief that lions were afraid of virgins, cocks, and the blood royal ; a 
herald's coat adorned with the king*s insignia might be presumed 
to have the same awe-inspiring power. 

225, 1 20-1. The hurts are yet but mortall . . . 

deadly. Gifford thinks that the press here confused but and nor ; 
otherwise, he says, it is not easy to discover how the author distin- 
guished mortal from deadly, *' unless, indeed, he adopted the vulgar 
phraseology of his native place, and used * mortal * in the sense of 
very great, extreme, &c.** 

227, 14-15. hony-combe of honesty. The garland 
of good-will. ** The Honeycomb of Honesty, like uie < Gar- 
land of Good Will,' was probably one of the popular miscellanies 
of the day." Gifford. The date of the publication of the Garland 

i^tetf 275 

fFill 18 given by Weber as 1 63 1 . Weber alto notes another 
to it in Rowley*8 Match at Midnight^ which was printed 
. It was reprinted by the Percy Society, ft-om the edition of 
a vol. 30, 1851. 

162-5. there is a mastery • • • food. There it a 
>orary ballad m the Shirbum collection <' Of a maide now 
; at the towne of meurs in dutchland^ that hath not taken any 
lis 16 yeares, and is not yet neither hungry nor thirsty ; the 
naide hath lately beene presented to the lady elizahttA, 
f s daughter of england/^ This << maide** subsisted in the 
proposed by Bassanes — on perfumes. 

<< My pure unspotted mind prevaild 
according to my will, 
And so my life preserved is 

by smelling flow-ers still.** 
Shirburn Ballads, Oxford, 1907, pp. 55-56. 

the other with an engine. Some simple mechani- 

rivance for holding fast the occupant of the chau*. The 

vice is introduced in a play by Ford*s firiend Bamabe Barnes, 

viPs Charter (1607), i, 5. See G. D. vol. i, p. 301 for 


55. Too sure to be COnyinc'd. Glflford observes that 

nee is used here in the primitive sense of eon^uered^ over- 

81-4. Glories . . . peace refin'd. GifFord says "I 

' reduce it to some tolerable meaning by reading * or * be- 
itroubled* mstead of ' »0r.* But if one properly emphasbes 
rJ** the sense of the quarto is sufEciendy clear, in spite of 
It obscurity of the double negative : glories . . . can please 
outward senses when the mind is troubled or not refined by 


* ; 

• ■ • 

r .,L 



The place of publication is London unless othervoise intUcated. 



Z8zi. 8vo. The Dramatic Works or John Ford. With an 
introduction and explanatory notes by Henry Weber. Edinburgh. 
2 vols. 

1827. 8vo. The Dramatic Works of John Ford. With 
notes critical and explanatory by W. Gifford, Esq. To which are 
added Fame*8 Memorial, and Verses to the Memory of Ben Jonson. 
a vols. [Contains the violent exposure of Weber, which was omit- 
ted by Dyce in 1869.] 

1839. 8vo. The Dramatic Works or MassiNCER and Ford. 
With an introduction by Hartley Coleridge. Reissued 1840, 1848, 
1851, etc. 

1869. 8vo. The Works or John Ford. With notes critical 
and explanatory by William Gifrord, Esq. A new edition, care- 
fully revised, with additions to the text and to the notes by the 
Rev. Alexander Dyce. 3 vols. 

1895. ^^®* '^"* Works or John Ford. Edited by William 
Gifibrd with additions by Rev. Alexander Dyce. Now reissued 
with further additions [by A. H. Sullen]. 

Z908. John FoRDEs Dram atischeWerke. In Neudruck her- 
ausgegeben von W. Bang. Erster Band. Mit emem einleitenden 
Essay : Forde*s Contribution to the Decadence of the Drama von 
S. P. Sherman und einem Neudruck von Dekkers Penny- Wise, 
Pound-Foolish. Louvain, Leipzig, London. [Contains The Lover* s 
Melancholy and Lovers Sacrifice y reproducing the spelling of the 
original quartos. Issued as Band xxui of Materialien zur Kunde des 
alteren Englischen Dramas."] 

278 IBibUograp]^ 


z6o6. 4to. Fame*8 Memomall, or thx Earlk op Dxton- 
SHiRE Deceased. With his honourable life, peaceful! end and sol- 
emne Funerall. [British Museum.] 

z6o6. 4to. Honor Triumphant : or the Peerxs Challenge, 
BY Armes defensible at Tilt, Turney, and Babrixks. . . . 
Also, The Monarches Meeting : or the King op Dxnmarkes 
Welcome into England. Tom Mercurio quam Marti. 

1620. i2mo. A Line or Life. Pointing out the Immor- 
tautie of a Vertoous Name. W. S. for N. Butter. 

1629. 4to. The Lovers Melancholy. Acted at the FriYate 
House in the Blacke Friers, and publikely at the Globe by the 
Kings Maiesties Seruants. . . . Printed for H. Seile, and are to 
be sold at the Tygershead in Saint Pauls Church-yard. [British 

1633. 4to. The Broken Heart. A Tragedy. Acted by the 
King*s Majesties Seruants at the Priuate House in the Black- 
Friers. Fide Honor. Printed by I. B. for Hugh Beeston, and are 
to be sold at his Shop, neere the Castle in Come-hill. [Bofton Pub- 
lic Library, British Museum.] 

1633. 4to. LouES Sacrifice. A Tragedie Receiued Generally 
Well. Acted by the Queenes Majesties Seruants at the Phcenix in 
Drury-lane. . . . Printed by I. B. for Hugh Beeston, dwellmg 
next the Castle in Cornhill. [British Museum.] 

1633. 4to. 'Tis Pitty Shee's -a Whore. Acted by the 
Queenes Maiesties Seruants, at the Phoenix in Drury-Lane. . . . 
Printed by Nicholas Okes for Richard Collins, and are to be told 
at his shop in Pauls Church-yard, at the signe of the three Kings. 
[Boston Public Library, Library of the Univerrity of lUinds, British 

1634. 4^^' "^"^ Chronicle Historie of Psrkin Warbbck. 
A Strange Truth. Acted (some-times) by the Queenes Maiesties 
Servants at the Phoenix in Drurie Lane. Fide Honor, . . . Printed 
by T. P. for Hugh Beeston, and are to be sold at his shop, neere 
the Castle in ComehiU. [Boston Public Library, British Museum.] 

1638. 4to. The Fancies, Chast and Noble. Presented by 
the Queenes Maiesties Servants, at the Phoenuc in Drury-lane. 

HBfliUoistapIn; 279 

snor. . . . Printed by £. P. for Henry Seile, and are to 
It his shop, at the Tygers Head in Fleet Street, over-against 
instans Church. [Boston Public Library, British Museum.] 
^. 4to. The Laoiis Triall. Acted by both their Majet- 
'ants at the private house in Drury Lane. Fide Honor. . . . 
by £. G. for Henry Shephard, and are to be sold at hit 
Chancery*lane at the signe of the Bible, between Saijants 
id Fleet-street neere the Kings-head Taveme. [Hanrard 
ty Library, British Museum.] 

;. 4to. The Queen: or The Excellency or Her Stt. 
client old Play, Found out by a Person of Honour, and 
the Publisher, Alexander Goughe. . . . Printed by T. N. 
mas Heath, in Russel Street neer the Piazza of Covent- 

[Boston Public Library, British Museum.] 
»• 4to. The Sun*s Darling. A Moral Masque: as ft hath 
m presented at Whitehall, by their Majesties Servants ; and 
the Cock-pit in E>rury Lane, with great Applause. Written 
in Foard '\ 

md >- Gent. . . . Printed by J. Bell for Andrew 

o. Decker J Penney cuicke. [British Museum.] 
'. 4to. The Sun*8-Darung : A Moral Masque: As it hath 
;n presented by their Majesties Servants ; at the Cock-pit 
' Lane, with great Applause. Written 
m Foard ^ 

ind >• Gent. . . . Printed by J. Bell, for Andrew 

o. Decker ) Penneycuicke. [British Museum.] 
i. 4to. The Witch of Edmonton. A known true Story, 
;d into A Tragi-Comcdy by divers well-esteemed Poets, 

Rowley, Thomas Dekker, John Ford, &c. Acted by the 
Servants, often at the Cock- Pit in Drury-Lane, once at 
nth Singular Applause. Never printed till now. • . . Printed 
ttrel, for Edward Blackmore, at the Angel in PauKs Church- 

28o Bibliograpln; 


TAis list includes reprints issued separately and witA tAe voorks of 
otAer autAorSy translationsy and extracts. 

1714. i2mo. The Chronicle History op Pkrkin Warbkck. 

1744. larao. *Ti8 Pity She's A Whore. A Select Collection 
of Old Plays, vol. 5. 

1780. 8vQ. 'Tis Pity She's A Whore. A Select Collection of 
Old Plays, vol. 8. 

1808. Specimens of English Dramatic Poets Who Lived 
About the Time of Shakspeare. [A new edition in two vol- 
umes with additional specimens was published in 1835. Contains 
excerpts from TAe Lover'' s MelancAoly, TAe Lady^s Trial, Lovers 
Sacrifice, Perkin Warbeck, *Tis Pity SAe's a fFAore, TAe Broken 
Heart — the last followed by the famous ecstatic note, "The ex- 
pression of this transcendent scene almost bears me in imagination to 
Calvary and the Cross."] 

1 819. The Lover's Melancholy, iv, iii. Campbell's Sped' 
mens of tAe BritisA Poets, vol. iii, pp. 233-240. 

1819. Fame's Memorial. Edited by H. Haslewood. Kent: 
Press of Lee- Priory. 

1830. The Broken Heart. TAe Old EnglisA Drama, voL 2. 

1 83 1. The Lover's Melancholy, The Broken Heart, Per- 
kin Warbeck. New York : Harper's Family Library, Dramatic 
Series, no. 4, vol. i . 

1843. Honour Triumphant, and a Line or Life. SAake- 
speare Society. 

1848. Das Gebrochene Herz. Trauerspiel in funf Akten 
. . . nach dem Versmasse des Originals iibersetzt von M. Wiener, 
Mit einem Vorworte von L. Tieck. Berlin. Also with the title-page : 
yohn Ford's dramatise Ae fVerke, Erster Band. 

1865. Le Ccf.ur Brise. Contemporains de SAakespeare, John 
Webster et John Ford, traduits par Ernest Lafond. Paris. 

1870. The Lady's Trial. TAe Works of tAe BritisA Drama' 
tists, edited by J. S. Keltic. Another edition in 1891. Edinburgh. 

1888. The Lover's Melancholy, 'TisPityShe's a Whore, 
The Broken Heart, Love 's Sacrifice, Perkin Warbeck. Edited 

IBibliograp^l? 281 

with an introduction and notes by Havelock Ellis. The Best Plays 
of the Old Dramatists {Mermaid Series). 

1890. PsRKiN Warbeck. Famous Elissabethan Plays. Edited 
by H. Macaulay Fitzgibbon. [Contains a brief notice of Ford.] 

1895. The Broken Heart. Edited with notes and introduction 
by Clinton Scollard. New York. 

1895. Annabella [' Tis Pity She *s A Whore.'\ Drame en cinq 
actes . . . Traduit et adapte par M. Maeterlinck. Paris. 

1896. Pkrkin Warbeck. Edited by J. P. Pickburn and J. Le 
Gay Brereton. 

1905. Specimens or the Euzabethan Drama. By W. H. 
Williams. Oxford. [Contains short excerpts from The Lover*$ 
Melancholy y The Broken Hearty Per kin fFarbeck, TheLadfs Trial; 
see pp. 397-416.] 

Z906. The Broken Heart. A Play written by John Ford. 
Edited vrith a Pre^ce, Notes and Glossary by Oliphant Smeaton. 

Z907. The Queen : or The Excellency op Her Sex. Nach 
der Quarto 1653 in Neudruck herausgegeben von W. Bang. Ma- 
teriaiien zur Kunde des alteren Englischen Dramas, xiii. Louvain, 
Leipzig, London. 

191 1. The Broken Heart. The Chief Elifsabethan Drama- 
tistSy edited from the original quartos and folios with notes, biog- 
raphies, and bibliographies, by W. A. Neilson. Boston. 



1687. The Lives or the Most Famous English Poets, 
William Winstanley [contains at page 114 a list of Ford*s plays, 
with the remark that he was '* very beneficial to the Red'Bull and 
Fortune Play-houses.**] 

1 69 1. An Account of The English Dramatick Poets, 
Gerard Langbaine. Pp. 219—222. Oxford. 

X8ix. 8vo. A Letter to J. P. Kemble, Esq., Involving 
Strictures on a Recent Edition op John Ford*s Dramatic 
Works. Printed at Cambridge for Murray, London. 

x8lZ. 8vo. A Letter to William Gipford, Esq., on the 


Latb EDmoM or Fotft*8 PLAVt, CflfWi.T as RuAnifQ to Ben 
JoNMN. By Octayhif GUckriit, Esq. 

1811. FoRO*> Dramatic Worki [Weber*s oditioii], ^uantrly 
Rtvirw, Dec., Tol. ti; 461-487. 

1813. WsBSR*s Eomoiv or Ford*! DRiucATic Works, 
Monthly Revinvp March, 240-354, and Aprfl^ ^72-386, vol. 


Kemblb, Monthly RtvietOj April, voL unrn, 386-387. 

1 8 12. 8ro. A LnrzR to R. Hxbsr, Esq., CoNXAimMO 
SoMi OnsRrATiom on thr MRRrrt or Mr. Wrrrr*s Lati 
Edition or Ford*i Dramatic Worki. [By J. Mitfbrd.] 

1821. Thx Plats and Forms or Wiuxam Srakvrars 

LONX, TOl. I, pp. 401-435. 

X827. FoRD*s Dramatic Worki, Mmthfy Rtokw^ AvgoiC, 

▼0*. ▼, 497-507. 

Z862. Stvdixn ubxr DAI Enoliicnx Thsatxr, MofitB Rappi 
pp. 94-98. Tiibbgen. 

1 871. John Ford, A. C. Swiobume, FortmghtlyRtmtVf^yScff 
vol. X, pp. 41-63. [Rq>rinted in Btuys mnd &tdh»j 1875.] 

1875. A History or English Dramatic LnxRATintx, A. 
W. Ward. 1 vols., 11, pp. 195-309. 

1879. John Ford, A. W. Ward, Encytlop^tdia Britaumem. 

z88o. John Ford bin NACHAHMXRSHAKXirxARX*SyMax Wolff. 

z88z. Contxmporains xt Succxssxurs dx SnAKXtrxARX, 
A. Mezieres, pp. 330-339. Paris, 3rd edition. [First edition, 

1887. A History or Elizabxthan Litxraturx, Geoiige 
Saintsbury. [Pp. 401-409 in edition of 1906.] 

z888. MxTRiscHK Untkrsuchungxn eu John Ford, Edoird 
Hannemann. Halle. 

1889. J^"^ Ford, A. H. Bullen, Dictionary of Nstimisi Biog- 

189Z. Thk Old Engush Dramatists, J. R. LoweU. Boston. 

1891. A Biographical Chroniclx or thx English Drama, 
F, G. Fleay. 2 vols., i, pp. 230-135. 

UBibliograpl^ 283 

x895* Das Vkrhaltnis von Fokds Psrkin Wakbick zv Ba- 
cons HxNRY vn, Victor Gehler. Halle. 

1897. Qvslzjcn-Stvoikn XV Den Dramsn Gkorgs Chap- 
man's, Phiup Ma88INgsk*s UNO John Forj>*s, £mil Koeppel. 

X903. A History of Engush Postry, W. J. Courthopey 
▼ol. IV, pp. 369-385. 

X906. FoRD*s Debt to his Prxoscsssors and Contxmpora- 
miBS; AND HIS Contributions to the Decadence of the Drama, 
S. P. Sherman. [An ill-digested dissertation which reposes in manu- 
script in the Harvard University Library. Some of the conclusions 
were used in the mtroduction to W. Bang's edition of Ford ; see 
above. A portion dealing with the source of TAe Broken Heart was 
published in the Publ. of the Mod, Lang, Auoc.; see below. Other 
suggestions regarding sources were mentioned by W. A. Neilson 
in the Cambrit^e History of English Literature ; see below. F. F. 
Pierce put the author under obligation by utilizing some collections 
relating to the collaboration of Ford and Dekker in two articles 
published in Anglia^ see below.] 

X906. John Foroe uno Parthxnios Von Nikaia, W. Bang 
und H. de Vocht, Englische Studien^ xxxvi, 392-393. 

1908. A New Play by John Ford [The ^«**», edited by W. 
Bang], S. P. Sherman, Modern Language Notes, xxviii, no. 8, 

pp. 24S-H9- 

1908. EuzABSTHAN Drama, F. £. Schclling. 2 vols., u, pp. 
327—336 and passim, Boston. 

X908. Tragedy, A. H. Thomdike, pp. 226-229 '^^ passim, 

1909. Stella and The Broken Heart, S. P. Sherman, 
Publications -of the Modern Language Association of America, vol. 
XVII, no. 2, pp. 274-285. 

1910. Ford and Shirley, W. A. Neilson, Cambridge History 
of English Literature, vol. vi, ch. viii. [See also Index and Biblio- 
graphy.] New York and Cambridge, England. 

I912. The Collaboration of Dekker and Ford, F. F. 
Pierce, Anglia, xxxvi, pp. 141-168 and 289-312. 


abiliment, ability. B. H. v. 

u, 49. 
affied, betrothed. T. P. m, 

V, 9- 
anticke, clown. B. H. n, i, 


Areopagite, a member of the 
court of Areopagus at Athens. 

B, H» ly 1) O. 

arty learning of the schools. T. 
P. I, i, 6. 

availeable, serviceable, im- 
portant. B. H, I, ii, 44; II, 
u, 25. 

board, jest. T. p. n, iv, 28. 
bobbe, cheat. T. p. m, i, 4. 
busse, kiss. T. p. Ill, V, 37. 

caroches, coaches. B. H. u, 

i, 129. 
cast-suite, a person who wears 

cast-ofF garments. T. P, i, ii, 

codpiece-poynt, a lace for 

fastening a portion of the male 

attire. T. P. iii, i, 15. 
COllopS, small pieces. B. H. 

II, i, 125. 
condition, character. T. P. 

n, ii, 94. 
confusion, perdition. T. P, 

u, iu, 54. 

cot-queane, shrew, huasy. T, 

P. I, ii, 13. 
COUze, cousin; here means 

nephew. T. P. iii, v, 32. 
cozen, used for various degrees 

of relationship; here, for niece. 

T. P. II, m, 39. 
cull, embrace. B. H. 11, i, 26. 

cunning, skill. T. P. n, i, 75. 

CUnny-berry, rabbit-burrow. 
T. p. IV, iii, 165. 

dry beating, a sound thrash- 
ing, r. p. II, vi, 116. 

eare-wrig, flatterer, parasite. 
B. H. II, i, 13. 

fiddle faddle, trifle. B. H, i, 

iii, no. 
firks, caprices. B, H, in, ii, 

fioates, flood or high tide. T. 
P. I, i, 65. 

fond, foolish, silly. T. P. i, 
i, 9. 

foyle, foil, dull background. T, 
P. II, ii, 30. 

franks, encloses as for fatten- 
ing. B, H, ui, ii, 198. 

gallymaufrey, jumbled mess, 
r. P. IV, iii, 13. 



geere, business, affair. T, P. 

I, ii, 9. 
goverment, conduct. T. P, 

I, i, 51. 
grammatei, rudiments. B. 

H, I, iii, 125. 

hugger mugger, secretly, 
r. P., ni, i, 19. 

impOltumei, abscesses. B, H, 

n, iu, 135. 
index, the hand with pointing 

forefinger. B, H. v, i, 36. 

jayei, trumpery persons. B. H. 

iif i, 136. 
jealoui, suspicious. B. H. lu, 

». 3- 

kennel, gutter. 7. P. 11, ▼!, 

lik't, pleased. 7. P. 11, vi, 107. 
luxury, lust, sensual indul- 
gence. T, P. IV, iii, 9. 

mag^ifico, magnate. T, P. i, 

ii, 141. 
May-game, laughing-ttock. 

T. P. I, iv, 51. 
megrims, whims resulting 

from nenrous headache. B.H. 

Ill, ii, 155. 
mew'd, confined as in a cage 

for birds. T. P. v, i, 14. 
mewed, shed, moult. B, H, 

"» i, 45- 

moil, mule. B, H. it, H, 17. 
motions, puppet-shows. 7. P. 
n,iv, 53. 

nicenesse, standing on cere- 
mony. B. H. I, iii, 5 a. 

nuntio, papal ambassador. 7. 
P. n, iii, 31. 

owing, owning. 7. P. i, 11,59. 

parmasent, Panneaan ch«K. 

7. P. I, iv, 67. 
partage, share. 7. P. I, ii, 

pavin, a stately damce. 7. P. 

J, n, 137- 
peevish, trivial. 7. p. 1, 1,24. 

plurisie, repletion. 7. P. iv, 

ui, 8. 
points, Uces. B, H, iv, ii, 

progress, a journey ol state. 

B. H. V, ii, 40. 
provincial], t of Provence ; 

see note. B. H, i, ii, 66. 

quality, rank. 7. 


I, 2, 

queane, low wooiaii. 
nr, iii, aS- 

7. P. 

rellishing, tastiag, 

^. H, nr, i, 75. 
cenuuic't, marked < 

n, V, 10. 
resolute, asM^icd. 

i, 42. 

»ut. 7. P. 
^. H. V. 



rest, resolution. 7. P. iii, 75. 

rubs, knobs ; the reference u 
here to the horns that grow 
on the forehead of the de- 
ceived husband. B. H. n, i, 

sadnesse, earnest. T, P, i, iii, 

SChoole-pointS, academic 
questions. T. P. i, i, 2. 

seeled, with eyelids sewed to- 
gether. B, H, II, ii, 3. 

sense, physical sensation. B» 
H, IV, ii, 18. 

shrewd, shrewish. T. P. n, 
ii, 119. 

single, single-minded. T. P. 

IV, i, 57. 
Skonce, head. T. P, m, i, 3. 
springall, a youth. B. H. u, 

i, 12; youthful, B. H, m, 

u, 144. 
states, dignitaries. T. P. v, 

ii, 21. 

tackling, weapon. 7. P. x, ii, !• 
tent, probe. B. H. iv, iv, 42. 
thrum, weave. B, H. i, ii, 

turtle, dove. B, H, v, i, 14; 

T. P. IV, iv, 29. 
tutellage, guardianship. 7. P. 

I, », 53. 
tympany, swelling. B. H. n, 

»i 134- 

uds sa'me, God save me. 
7. P. I, IV, 60. 

un-raunged, ? unchssified. 
7. P. I, i, 45. 

unspleen'd, lacking a spleen 
and therefore of a naturally pa- 
cific disposition. 7. P.I, ii, 62. 

wagtails, light women. B.H. 

u, i, 136. 
white-boy^ favorite. 7. P. 

I, iv, 86. 
winkes, shuts her eyes. 7. P. 

HI, ii, 23. 

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